


been biting my tongue all week

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst and Laughs, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Kent Parson: Chaotic Neutral, M/M, Medium Burn (Not Slow Not Fast), Miscommunication, Polyamory, Sports Injury, Therapy, Use Your Words, temporary injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: Kent comes out to management, gets traded, goes to dinner with Zimms and Bittle, and falls in love. In almost exactly that order.





	1. baby i'm bad news

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, friends. Listen, this is a work in progress, and honestly I am posting this initial chapter to hopefully give myself the motivation to finish the rest of it. 
> 
> I cannot think of any specific warnings, but as always please let me know if there is anything I should tag and I would be happy to do so. 
> 
> Title from "Portions For Foxes" by Rilo Kiley.
> 
> Check, Please! belongs to Ngozi Ukazu.

So Kent takes his therapist's advice for the first and last time, and tells management that he's gay. Then he goes off and has a really cool two weeks of feeling footlose and fancy-free, comes close to calling You Can Play four separate times, and helps Scrappy build a playhouse for his kid.

It's kind of the best.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, Kent thinks, when he got the call to come in for a meeting. He kind of thought it would be about his coming out strategy. He asked how long he should give the organization to draft a statement and come up with a plan, and even though they just said they'd get back to him, he figured two weeks was a good timeline. Or if it's not about Kent's whole thing, maybe they wanted to talk about which rookies have looked good in training camp so far.

It's not that.

“It's not personal, son,” Hodge, the GM, says. He reaches out like he's going to clap Kent on the shoulder, but thankfully he doesn't. “We're just moving in a different direction. These things happen.”

Kent breathes. He remembers how to breathe. He's been doing it for years, since he was born, he practically does it for a living since it's kind of integral to playing hockey. He can totally do it now.

“Yes, sir.”

Inhale, exhale.

“You've done tremendous things for the organization, kid,” says Coach. Kent swallows. “And you'll keep on doing them in Providence.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Kent can blink, too. He does it once, twice, to prove it. Clears his throat. “They want me for training camp?”

“If possible,” Hodge says, which means yes. He hesitates, then adds, “You'll be more comfortable there, Parson. It's—the right environment.”

The queer environment. Kent doesn't say it. He's gotten better at holding his tongue, even when the ugliness inside of him is surging up, making his hands shake, like it is now. Kent's therapist--who is officially fired for giving the worst advice ever--says he never developed mature coping techniques since he was basically raised by coaches and hockey pucks.

They've been working on it.

“Well, then, I guess I'd better start packing.” Kent stands up, shakes everyone's hands, says thank you a few more times.

And because Kent Parson has excellent control over his muscles, thank you very fucking much, he walks out of the room without tripping over his stupid numb feet.

 

It's easy to tell when the news breaks because Kent's phone lights up and starts beeping like a fucking bomb. By the time he hauls his ass out of his closet, where he's throwing shit into his suitcase, there are about three thousand texts from the boys—gotta stop calling them that, not Kent's boys anymore—and more coming every minute.

 _Dude_ , says Scrappy, and then, _What the fuck???????_ The others are basically variations on that.

Jeff calls when Kent's trying to think of a response.

“Yo,” Kent says.

“Hey, man.” Jeff's quiet for a second, then offers, “This sucks. Who the hell's gonna do all the commercials now?”

Kent laughs loud enough to startle Purrson out of his nap. “Well, I'm pretty sure you're getting the C now, so welcome to Hollywood.”

“Fuck, no, I'm retiring if they try.” Jeff is being squirrely. Kent can picture him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, all nervous and shit. “Are you okay?”

“Trades happen. It's a business,” Kent says. The record book is basically just his name written down like a list, but trades happen. When you're gay or whatever. It's cool. Nothing personal, son. “I gotta buy some sweatshirts or something, though, it's ass cold in Rhode Island.”

“Coulda been worse,” Jeff offers. “Coulda been the Schooners.”

“Don't even joke, dude. I gotta go, though, I've got a flight, like, first thing in the morning and all my shit is everywhere, I gotta get a petsitter for the cat until I can fly him out.” Kent hasn't moved since he was nineteen and bought this house. Fuck, he should probably sell his house. “Thanks for calling, though.”

“You know it, Cap.”

And thank fuck, that conversation is over. Kent hangs up and is about to throw his phone back onto the bed, ignore it for a while, when he sees a text that isn't just the Aces group thread.

 _Welcome to the Falconers_. _Glad to have you on the team_. Unknown number. But--

Zimms. Doing the captain thing. And that's just--

Whatever. Kent's got to fucking pack.

 

Georgia Martin meets Kent at the airport. It's kind of intimidating, because he remembers when he had her Wheaties box taped to his wall as a kid, right next to Cammi Granato's. Gold medals, yo. Kent's still working on that.

But Georgia Martin--“call me George”--just talks logistics and drives him to the hotel that the Falconers got for him while he finds an apartment.

“You could stay with Marty if you want, but we thought you might want your own space,” George says briskly. Kent's head is kind of spinning—he's got to be at the rink for training camp in like four hours, and he's got to meet with PR after that—but yikes, he's kind of past billeting.

“Yeah, I'll be okay,” Kent agrees.

George stops at a red light, taps her fingers on the steering wheel. She doesn't look at him when she says, “We've got a strategy ready with You Can Play, if you want to go that route.”

Kent's stomach drops. “They—uh. They told you? About me?”

Now George does glance at him, looking surprised. “I thought that was why you wanted the change of scenery.”

“They said I wanted the trade?”

“That was implied during negotiations, yes.” George's eyebrows furrow and she frowns a little. “You didn't want the trade.”

Years of media training kick in. “I'm thrilled for the opportunity to play for such a great organization.”

“Kid.” George's voice is flat. “This wasn't your idea, was it?”

“I found out last night.” Kent blinks. “Don't. Um. Don't tell anyone? About me. The other thing. If that's okay. I don't want anyone to know, I just told the Aces like two weeks ago, and--”

“ _Shit_ ,” George hisses. “What the hell happened, did some guy threaten to leak a sex tape or something?”

Kent's been pretty resolutely not banging dudes since 2009, so nope, no sex tape out there, not unless Zimms knows something he doesn't. “No, I just, uh. Told them.”

“Pieces of shit,” George growls to the windshield. “Not _you_ , Parson, don't look like I punched you. The fucking Aces. And they outed you, great. We'll keep a lid on it if you want, but it's not like the team would give you shit. We've already got Jack.”

Yeah, Kent doesn't need the fucking reminder. Luckily, George is pulling up to a hotel and stopping the car.

“So be at Dunkin's after lunch, right?” Kent asks. He wants out of this car. He wants his cat.

He wants a time machine so he doesn't ever go to goddamn counseling and become the world's biggest idiot.

George nods, and he bolts. Thank fucking God.

 

The glares when Kent steps into the locker room—not inspiring.

He keeps his head down and unloads his gear bag into his stall. There's already a Falconers' jersey with his name and number hanging up. He wonders if the gift store is selling it yet.

“Parse.”

Jack.

Yep, that makes sense. Kent slaps on a grin.

“Hey, Zimms.” Don't say it, Kent warns himself. Don't fucking do it. But-- “Miss me?”

 

The reason for the glares becomes apparent on the ice. There's some guy in goal that Kent doesn't recognize—the backup turned starter. He's been avoiding looking up details of his own trade, and everything from the meeting with management's kind of hazy, like it didn't really happen. But clearly the goalie's gone. Snow. Snow's in Vegas, that's kind of hilarious.

Training camp is more than halfway over, just like at home—Vegas. Like in Vegas. So the place is starting to empty itself of prospects. Not like Kent's getting sent down to the AHL even if he slacks off. He's still got a no-movement clause in his contract—took that and two million a year extra over a no-trade agreement, like a moron—so he could lay down on the ice if he felt like it and still play.

But.

It's kind of like stepping back in time, when Coach puts him on a line with Zimms, trying it out. Mashkov, on the other wing, won't pass to him, but that's fine, because Jack gets the puck and barely glances to the left before he sends it sliding over to land on Kent's tape.

The Zimmermann-Parson No-Look One-Timer, ladies and gentlemen. Back in business, or nearly.

So basically Kent's fucking wiped at the end of the week, and Jack hasn't said a word to him since stiffly welcoming him to the team, and nobody else has done much more than grunt in his direction or shout to him on the ice. Mashkov keeps scowling at him.

There's a team barbecue at Marty's place once the roster is finalized, so Kent puts on one of his new Falconers caps and drives his new car out to the 'burbs. The party's in full swing. The vibe doesn't close off when Kent steps into the backyard, so that's one for the win column.

Kent makes sure to go thank Marty's wife for hosting—she's got a toddler on one hip and seems happy enough to welcome him to Providence, especially when he steals the kid and goes to play some kind of variation on Transformers mashed up with My Little Pony for half an hour. It's way more brutal than camp, in terms of a workout.

Eventually it's too much for Kent's horrible exhausted body, so Kent scoops up the little dude and sticks him up on his shoulders, then pretends to be looking for him. It's always a hit with Scraps Jr.

God, Kent misses his godson. He's not going to be there for the little man's birthday. It'll be the first one he's missed. Marty's kid is cool, though, which is nice.

“Hey, Parse,” Marty says warily when Kent makes his way over to a group of Falcs vets.

“Hey, man,” Kent says. “You haven't seen your kid anywhere, have you? I lost him.” The giggling around his left ear intensifies.

Marty gives Kent a dubious look, but plays along. “Check behind you, I think there's something there.” Kent obligingly spins a circle, craning his neck, and Mini Marty shrieks with laughter.

“Nothing there, guess I gotta keep looking.”

Five minutes later, Gabby's reclaimed her kid and Kent gets his warmest welcome yet from the cluster that includes Marty, Thirdy, and Guy. They've managed to move on conversationally from golf to what neighborhoods Kent should check out in his house hunt, when--

“Zimmermann! Get over here and give us some dirt on Parson from Juniors,” Guy shouts.

“Oh, boy. Not much to tell,” Jack says from Kent's elbow. Cool, cool, that's cool.

“Ah, geez. Bittle, you've got to know some stories, right?”

Bittle. Kent turns to smile at Jack and his boyfriend, the one who Jack made out with at center ice, the one who is currently holding a pie and—glaring daggers at Kent, actually, which is new.

“I'm sure Parson can give you all the ammo you need all on his own, fellas,” Bittle chirps.

And, oh. _Oh_.

This, Kent can work with.

 

Bittle's open hostility is kind of relaxing, especially compared to the thinly veiled disdain coming from Kent's new teammates, which is like, familiar in a deadening kind of way. Yeah, Bittle's a nice change of pace. So much so that Kent kind of just follows the guy around, bugging him.

“Shouldn't you be bonding with your new teammates?” Bittle asks, icily polite, when Kent hands him another cup of punch. He's going through them quick, probably because he's drinking to forget that Kent Parson, the evil one, is near him. Kent's been getting refills for them both while Jack's occupied with the guys.

“Nah. What's the point?” Mashkov seems like the center of the team, buddies-wise, and since he hates Kent's guts there's probably not a lot of hope there. It's whatever. He's still got Scraps texting him every ten minutes, practically, so it's basically the same as being back in Vegas.

  
“Well,” Bittle grits out from between clenched, smiling teeth, “You're the one who decided to come all this way.”

Jack's boyfriend, Kent notices, is kind of hot when he's mad, intense under all that sugar.

“What, from my hotel? It's like twenty minutes away, tops.” Wait a second. “Do you mean from Vegas? It's not like I told them to dump me, dude.”

Bittle stares at him. “What're you talking about?”

“Uh, I came out to them and they traded me to the rainbowest team in the league like two weeks later?” And oh, shit. The punch must be stronger than Kent realized. He shouldn't have said that. “Keep that under your hat, dude, gay solidarity or some shit. You're not allowed to tell on me, that's the deal, right?”

Bittle stares a little more. Then he says, faintly accusing, “I'm not going to feel sorry for you, Parson.”

“Who the fuck asked you to?” Kent can hear himself, the turn in his voice towards nasty, so he takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Finds his inner peace or whatever. “You're not going to tell everyone, right?”

“Who else are you out to?” Bittle blurts. “You've told other people? Your old team?”

Kent stares at Bittle. “Well, there's Aces senior management. And whoever they told on the Falconers when they were trading me. George, and I guess probably some others. I'm assuming Zimms figured it out at some point from, like, context clues.”

Bittle straight up puts his entire face into his hand. “Oh, no, no, no,” he mutters into his palm. “Oh, Lord. Please don't say I've got to--”

Um, hello, Kent's still trying to get some information here. Shit. Okay, if he's got to ask nice--

“Bittle, please don't tell.” Kent's done more embarrassing shit than this. There are all those pictures of him drunk off of Smirnoff Ice. He lost at the Olympics once, that was humiliating. But nothing's ever given him this small, sick feeling in his gut before. He closes his eyes against it for a second, breathes deep, one two three. It's fine. It's happening. So. “Please. Please, Bittle.”

“Parson.” Kent opens his eyes. Bittle is looking up at him, determined, fierce. “I'm not going to tell anyone.”

So begging pays off, which is at least good to know. Some of the tension leaves Kent's muscles. “Thanks. Thank you, Bittle. I appreciate it.”

“Thank you. For trusting me.” Bittle still looks fierce, which is like—why? Then he adds, “You're coming to dinner at our place next week.”

Uh. Kent licks his lips, tries to think of something say that isn't just _no_. “Jack won't like that.”

“You let me worry about Jack,” Bittle says. “You're coming, Parson.”

And look, Kent has been playing competitive sports since he was in kindergarten. He knows how to respond to an order. “Okay. Thank you.”

Bittle gives him a weird look. Kent isn't sure how to interpret it. “You don't have to thank me, Parson.”

Kent's pretty sure that Bittle isn't talking about the invitation. But when he looks around, Jack is starting to break away from his huddle, glancing over at Kent and Bittle with a frown. Must be checking to make sure that Kent's not upsetting his boyfriend. So there's not exactly time to find out if Bittle's buying into the gay solidarity stuff or what.

“I've gotta--” Kent waves the hand that isn't holding a Solo cup at the rest of the party. Jack's definitely walking over now. “Go. Bye. Thank you.”

And he manages to book it before Zimms can come over, so at least Kent's still got some kind of luck.

 

Kent rents an apartment to be done with it, and since the preseason starts with a homestand, he finally gets everything settled to ship his cat from Vegas.

“What's got you so chipper?” Marty asks when Kent's getting dressed for practice. On Kent's other side, Zimms is pointedly ignoring Kent's bouncing and humming, which is cool.

“My cat's getting here today.” Kent resists the urge to whip out his phone and show off pictures. Purrs is the greatest thing that ever happened to Kent, and also he looks great in a hat.

“Cool, dude. What's his name?” Marty asks. Marty's been nice since the barbecue. Apparently his kid likes Kent, which is the way in. Not like Kent was trying to suck up, but it's not a bad side effect.

“Kent Purrson,” Kent says, and waits until the inevitable laughter has quieted down to add, “Yeah, yeah, dude. He came with the name, it wasn't my idea. Someone found a box of kittens outside the arena and the shelter named them all after the team.”

“God, Parser.” Marty shakes his head. “You're a soft touch, eh?”

“Purrs is the best,” Kent says. Soft touch. Not great. Okay, he's got to focus. He tugs off his shirt, grabs his jersey. Marty wanders off to the ice. Kent sits down to get his shoes off and just breathes for a second.

It's cool. He's just going to practice. It's a good thing he didn't tell Marty that he's the one who found the kittens and took them to the shelter in the first place.

“Hey.” Jack.

Kent looks up. Jack's frowning down at him. But he's looking at Kent, and talking to Kent, so that's a step.

“He didn't mean anything by it. Marty's a good guy.”

“It's cool, Zimms,” Get it together, Parson. “Everything's fine.”

“Your hands are shaking,” Jack says, nodding at them. Kent hadn't even noticed. He spreads his fingers out over his knees to steady them.

It's Zimms, Kent reminds himself, and there's nobody else in the locker room really, just Mashkov over in his corner. They're the last of the early guys, and the on-time guys aren't here yet. It's just Zimms, who Kent had to drive to the emergency room in Bob's car after the OD, both of them with Jack's puke on their shirts. They don't have any ceremony to stand on anymore.

So Kent can say it.

“I get a little, you know. Shaky. Sometimes.” When Kent fucks up and almost ruins shit with the one dude on the team who seems like he can stand Kent. For instance.

Jack sits down on the bench next to Kent. He takes a deep, loud breath and then puts a hand on Kent's shoulder, gently, the way he used to. It's gone after a second, the warmth barely registering. Like maybe Kent was just remembering instead of feeling it again.

Zimms says, “Bits wants to know if Tuesday works for dinner. He realized he didn't have your number.”

“Oh geez.” Kent rubs at the spot where Jack's hand maybe was. “He doesn't have to go to all that trouble.”

“If you don't want to come, just say so,” Jack says. He grins a little, flickers of Zimms past. “It's not like he's going to hate you more, eh?”

That startles a laugh out of Kent, loud enough that Mashkov looks at them in bemusement. “That's the truth, man. Yeah, I'll be there. Can you text me the details?”

“Zimmboni,” Mashkov calls. He gestures towards the tunnel. “Drills?”

“Yeah, coming,” Jack says. “Parse, you coming?”

“Yeah.” Kent has got this. “I'm there.”

 

Tuesday night finds Kent standing on Zimms' porch clutching a bouquet, and grimacing at Eric Bittle's expression. “I, uh. These are for you.”

Bittle at least takes the flowers, even if he looks at the orange roses like they're poisonous. “How lovely,” he says, voice dripping with ice.

“I. Um. My dad always said don't go to someone's house without a gift. And Angelica—she's the lady at the florist, it's her store, she does a lot of local blooms when they're in season—she said that these are good for summer and fall décor, so they won't clash with anything you've got up, and—I can shut up now.” During Kent's rambling, Bittle's expression has gone from concealed disdain to outright dislike, so that's—about right.

“Why don't you just come in,” Bittle says, putting Kent out of his misery.

“Thank you. Wow. It's nice in here.” Kent looks around at Zimms' house—and Bittle's house, right, they live together. It's homey, a lot of exposed wood and framed pictures on the walls. Geez, they got Alicia to give up the Ansel Adams, that's a coup. Kent can smell some kind of tomatoey thing happening in the kitchen. “It smells great, too.”

“Thank you.” Bittle gestures to the hall. “Dining room's this way.”

Kent follows Bittle to the dining room, where there's salad, pasta, and Jack.

“Hey, Parse.” Jack's eyes go from Kent, to Bittle, and back. “Nice flowers, bud.”

“Maybe you could take a few tips, mister,” Bittle chirps. Great, Kent has always wanted to watch Jack flirt with other dudes, especially ones that hate him, it's been a dream for so long. “Why don't I just go find a vase.”

Jack raises his eyebrows at Kent when Bittle's out of the room. “You still bring flowers everywhere, don't you?”

“Shut up, everybody likes flowers.” Kent used to scrape together money by babysitting his billet family's kids so he could get hostess presents for Alicia.

“What's the florist's name and life story?” Jack asks, grinning.

“Angelica, and she's awesome. We're eloping later tonight.” Whatever, Kent likes talking to people. Zimms used to fucking appreciate it when that meant he didn't have to say a word to anyone.

Dinner itself is a whole different sort of trouble. There's small talk involved, for one thing.

“So, Parson, how are you liking Providence?”

“It's nice. Quiet.” Kent's apartment is right downtown and it still feels like there's no noise at night. It's been good having Purrs with him the last few days, even if he is still mad that Kent left him behind in Vegas for so long.

“Jack says that practice is going well. You're feeling ready for the opener?” Bittle's voice is pleasant, which clearly means nothing.

“It's been great. Really clicking. It's easy when you're on such a great team.” God, Parse has had less stressful interviews during Cup Finals.

“Well, isn't that nice.” Bittle takes a sip of wine and smiles, bright and sunny, completely fuck-you. “Tater mentioned that things could be going a little better, so I'm glad it's straightened out.”

“Bits,” Jack says quietly. But it's cool. Kent's fine.

“If Mashkov would get over himself and pass me the fucking puck things would be just swell.” They're not quite at the level of breaking up the line, but the coaches have been dropping Kent or Mashkov down to second line every so often in practice, trying to see if something else gels. Kent is not a second line player, dammit.

Bittle frowns. “It's a team, Parson, you can't always be the one on the breakaway.”

“Tater hasn't been great,” Jack says before Kent can do more than open his mouth. “He's still upset about Snowy.”

Bittle's scowls changes to something that might be a little less combative. “Oh. That's not what he told me.”

And then Jack takes over, thank God, by droning on about strategies for their home opener against the Rangers. Kent eats and listens with one ear, just like he always has with Zimms. It's not about strategy when they're on the same line. Kent will find the opening and get Jack the puck, or Jack will get it to him, and then they'll win. Bada boom bada bing.

That carries them through the rest of dinner and an incredibly fraught piece of pie that, frankly, tastes like anger and magic. It's kind of freaky.

Bittle walks Kent to the door.

“Did you hear a word of that?” Bittle asks when Kent's putting on his jacket.

“Uh. I don't need to listen to do what Jack wants me to do?” Kent scratches the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean. I was always good at doing what he told me to.”

Bittle gets a thoughtful look on his face. But all he says is, “We'll do this again.”

“We will?” Kent's pretty sure that this did not, like, go well. But Bittle glares at him, so Kent gives up. “We will. Sure. Thanks for the food.”

And then he gets to run away. At fucking last.

 


	2. keep on talking trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bittle makes good on his threat, and somewhere between the start of preseason and the official day that Kent wins the battle with Mashkov over who's staying on the first line, Kent gets used to going over to the Zimmermann-Bittle household every Tuesday that the Falcs are in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for your lovely comments and encouragement, this chapter brought to you by Procrastinating On Other Work. 
> 
> Can I issue a general warning for the inside of Kent Parson's head?

Bittle makes good on his threat, and somewhere between the start of preseason and the official day that Kent wins the battle with Mashkov over who's staying on the first line, Kent gets used to going over to the Zimmermann-Bittle household every Tuesday that the Falcs are in town.

“I don't get it,” Kent complains, tying a purple ribbon around some gardenias.

“Some people do corsages for homecoming,” Angelica says, shrugging. She's going through the books, pen poised on her ledger. “Good, nice bow on that one. I don't get it either. Save it for prom, right? But I fill the orders even if they're dumb as hell.”

“No, I—I was complaining about Bittle,” Kent says. Angelica fixes him with a stern look over her glasses, and Kent winces a little.

“I know that, I just think it's about time you stopped. You're a young man, you're rich—if you don't like going over there, cook for yourself, or order in.”

Kent is saved from having to answer when the bell over the front door tinkles. Mariela bursts into the store, a swirl of motion like always, flinging off her trench coat and shaking her wet umbrella all over the floor. Kent should probably grab a mop.

“Hey, Grandma! Hey, Kent.”

“Hey there, kiddo,” Angelica says. “Grab some ribbon and help our shopboy out.”

“If I'm a shopboy you've gotta start paying me,” Kent says. He runs the ribbon binding the gardenias against the blade of his scissors to curl it. “How was school, Mari?”

“Bo-ring,” Mariela says. She puts on her green apron and comes to help Kent finish up the rest of the corsages. “But auditions were cool. I think I'll probably end up being one of the fairies but I guess I've got a shot at some lines based on the callbacks? Definitely not Tatiana or anything. I don't know, freshmen barely ever get cast.”

She'd better get frickin' lines after Kent spent like an hour last night going over damn Shakespeare with her, or else he's going down to the high school and asking for a recount or whatever they do.

“What're you still doing here, Kent? It's Tuesday, you're gonna be late for dinner,” Mari says, and Kent groans so loud that he almost doesn't hear the bell when it rings this time.

“Welcome to La Vie en Rose, be with you in just a sec,” Kent says. He looks up from the fiddly little bouquets and sees-- “Bittle.”

He's standing there, just inside the door, staring. Kent feels himself start blushing—not because he's like, embarrassed to be hanging with Angelica, who's basically the coolest person he's ever met, or with Mari, who's an awesome kid even if she does call hockey “ice game.” But like. Bittle's staring at Kent like he's never seen him before, like he's a total stranger, and Kent feels his entire heart kind of stutter. Whatever, it's dumb. This is a dumb thing to be freaked about.

“ _This_ is Bittle?” Mari half-whispers, probably trying to be sly. But she's a teenager, so she misses by a mile. Bittle's eyebrows go up, and Kent winces. Great, now Bittle's gonna think Kent was talking shit or something. Which is true, but still.

“I thought maybe I should pick up flowers today, so you don't feel like you need to keep bringing them,” Bittle says. And Kent's even redder now, because--

“Kent's order is in the cooler, do you just want that?” Mari asks.

Kent will have sweet revenge for this. He's going to come to her play and make a sign, and embarrass the hell out of her in front of that junior she's got a crush on.

Not that Kent has a crush on Bittle.

And now Mari's showing Bittle the flowers that Angelica helped Kent arrange. They're nothing special, just white and a couple pops of violet from the irises, because Kent knows now that Bittle will put them in the vase under Zimms' framed black-and-white photographs of some fucking geese, and that a clean color palate looks better there.

What? Kent knows some stuff. Scrappy's girlfriend is an interior designer.

“I can—walk you out? I already paid, and stuff. Angelica--”

“I'll see you on Sunday,” Angelica says, waving him off. Kent peels off his apron and throws it at Mari, who sticks her tongue out at him but whatever, bigger fish to fry.

Kent walks Bittle out and like, behind the store to the parking lot. It's getting chillier out. Kent should probably have grabbed a jacket before he left this morning, but it was sunny, and he got tricked. Fucking New England.

“What's on Sunday?” Bittle asks. Kent thinks back--

“Oh! Pete, that's Angelica's grandson, he's doing this thing for the science fair and I said I'd come over and help. Plus, like, football's on.” Kent's still technically a Bills fan, but only because he's never bothered to switch his allegiance. “Did you really come to try and get flowers before I could?”

“Shows me for trying to get the drop on you,” Bittle says, smiling a little, looking down at the bouquet. Well, yeah, it's hard to scowl with an armful of roses. But--

“Do you want me to stop? Bringing flowers.” Maybe it's weird. Maybe Kent shouldn't be bringing flowers to his ex-boyfriend's boyfriend every week. Maybe he shouldn't--

“No.” And it's firm, firmer than Kent's heard Bittle sound since he was promising Kent he wouldn't tell anyone about how Kent's gay. “No. I don't want you to stop. I like it.”

Okay. Kent swallows hard, past the sudden lump in his throat. That's--

“Okay. I won't, then.”

They stop at Bittle's truck and Kent hovers, not sure what to do. He walked over to the shop, so he should probably go get his car, so he can go to Bittle and Zimms' house, but he's not supposed to show up until seven and it's not--

“Parson. Get in,” Bittle says. He's in the driver's seat, window rolled down so he can frown at Kent. He sounds like maybe he already told Kent once, and now he's getting back to his usual self.

And this—this is doable. Kent can do what's told.

He gets in.

 

“Hey, bud,” Zimms says when Kent walks into the kitchen. He's bent over the counter, his back to the doorway. That's why he sounds so warm and—loving, okay? Shit. It's because Zimms hasn't seen that it's Kent, not Bittle.

“Hey, honey,” Bittle says back, slipping past Kent. His arms are full of flowers. Jack looks up, then, smiling, caught in profile by the autumn sun through the window.

It's awful, suddenly, this picture of what Kent's been dreaming of since he was sixteen, but not right because it's not Kent's home and not Kent's guy, not even his best friend anymore. His breath catches in his throat. He should go. He should just turn around and go, what was he thinking coming to these dinners in the first place?

“You'll never guess what happened when I tried to go pick up my own décor, sweetheart,” Bittle continues, unaware that Kent's heart is busting into pieces in his kitchen.

“Parse beat you to it,” Jack says, and that's enough to startle Kent out of his breakdown, make his lungs inflate again. Jack looks over his shoulder and grins at Kent like he was—aware, the whole time, that it was Kent there. Okay. That's a surprise. “Told ya that would happen, he likes flowers.”

“I don't _like_ flowers,” Kent protests automatically.

“You can like flowers, bud,” Zimms says, and oh. He was calling Kent that, earlier. They're buds.

That's—Kent's imagination was just working overtime a minute ago, then. Zimms sounded normal, Kent only _thought_ he sounded--

“All right, Parson, let's see what you've got,” Bittle says while Kent is still staring at the line of Zimms' jaw. He's steering Kent to a cutting board with an onion, putting a knife into Kent's hand. “I want a fine dice.”

Okay. Kent can do that.

 

There's wine, at dinner. There's wine, and Bittle puts the flowers in a vase in the center of the table instead of under the goose picture, so that's not what Kent expected but it's nice. Bittle likes the flowers. Zimms is loose and smiling, flushed, telling some dumb story about a fire extinguisher.

Bittle rolls his eyes at Kent over the table, conspiratorial, like he's heard this story before. Kent could buy that. He's heard Zimms' previous designated Funny Story, about the time the team filled the goalie's helmet with glitter, so it spilled all over when he put it on, about a thousand times. And Kent was _there_ for that, so that one was even worse.

“Parson,” Bittle interrupts, reaching out to pat Jack on the hand as he does. “What were you telling me earlier about helping out with a science fair?”

Zimms raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Don't tell me. The florist.”

Kent can feel his cheeks heating up. “Shut up, Zimmermann.”

Jack throws his head back and laughs, loud, familiar, forgotten. “Bits, Parse got adopted by like five different families when we were in Rimouski. The waitress at the diner--”

“What, I was gonna let Paula reshingle her own roof?” Kent demands. “After all the free pie?”

“And the custodian at school,” Jack continues.

“Gerard showed me how to fix Paula's roof,” Kent protests.

“After you spent like a month driving him to church when he broke his foot.” Jack smirks, like he's got Kent beat, but whatever. Gerard sent Kent a can of the good dark maple syrup like three months ago, so joke's on Zimmermann.

Bittle watches them like they're a tennis match, volleying back and forth. “So this is typical for you, Parson? Doing good deeds? Did you get that cat of yours out of a tree?”

“I like people.” Kent shrugs. People tend to like him back, at least in measured doses.

“What's the project?” Zimms asks. Figures he'd care, the nerd.

“Gotta make a balloon-powered car.” Kent has no idea how to make a balloon-powered car, but that's what Youtube is for, and he's got a couple of days. “Either they're building smarter kids now or I was always just an idiot, I have no idea what Pete's talking about half the time. His alarm clock runs on potato energy.”

Bittle is looking at him thoughtfully, which can't possibly bode well. “You've been in Providence for two months.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. He's been doing this weekly dinner shtick for half of that.

“And you're already integrated into a family unit,” Bittle says, dry. He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you should start going to Guy's poker games or something.”

Kent—would do that. He did not know there were poker games happening. It's not like he doesn't hang out with the Falcs—when the team goes out after games, or sometimes he'll grab lunch with Thirdy and Marty. It's normal. Once he gets his place decorated he's going to have like, a video game party or something.

But Bittle's _looking_ at him, and Kent isn't sure what to do. The silence stretches out, long enough to make Kent's breath catch, Bittle's gaze like honey. Then Bittle blinks, and the moment's over, snapped.

“Well,” Bittle says, briskly. “Dessert? I made pie. Mixed berry.”

Kent sighs. In relief. Definitely in relief.

 

Kent is out buying Sue a birthday card when he runs into Mashkov. Like, physically runs into him. It's his own fault, he got distracted by a display of Halloween stuff. He's been wondering if Purrs would let Kent put a little lion mane on him, and then Kent could be a zookeeper or something and it would be awesome. Anyway, there's no cat costumes in the drug store, so--

He bumps right into someone.

“Sorry, sir,” Kent starts to say, and then he realizes _who_ he tripped into. “Tater. Sorry, dude.”

Mashkov gives him an amused look. “No problem, Parson. What you getting?”

“Oh, it's, um. My accountant's birthday. Next week,” Kent says, holding up the card lamely. It's one of the singing ones. Sue's probably going to hate it, but Kent saw one of the cards he sent on her desk when he swung by in December once, so.

Mashkov laughs, but it doesn't sound like he's laughing at Kent, exactly, even though any of the Aces but Scrappy and Jeff would have let him have it for this whole interaction. Chirps until the end of time.

“Okay,” Mashkov says, “I'm thinking, maybe we start out on wrong foot. Talked to B, said you didn't ask for trade. So--”

He sticks out one enormous hand. They are like catcher's mitts, Kent thinks, before he realizes he's supposed to shake it.

“Welcome to Falconers,” Mashkov says, pumping Kent's hand solemnly. “Good to have you on the team, I need a winger.”

Kent laughs. “Dream on, pal, I'm pretty sure they got me just for Zimms.”

Mashkov throws an arm around Kent's shoulder, and oh. Guess they're just friends now, cool. “Let them think that, sure, then we show them. Mashkov-Parson No-Look Goal. Upgrade.”

 

Having Mashkov—Tater—on his side switches shit around pretty quick. It's like a little wall between Kent and the team melts, and then it's pretty much exactly like being on the Aces again, except nobody asks Kent to do special media shit or plan out plays, which is like. Fine. But there's that familiar kind of chirping, a little sharp-edged when Kent is too weird, letting him know where the lines are. Once he gets that down, it's smooth sailing.

Guy's poker games turn out to be on Sunday afternoons, so Kent can't go anyway because he's got to hang with Angelica and her family, but. He got invited, so that's a win. The season's going well so far. Tater adapts pretty quick to being a second line center, because frankly he's better there than as a winger, and he's too slow to keep up with Kent and Zimms, which is--

Fucking beautiful, the kind of sharp gorgeous hockey that Kent's been dreaming about his whole life. The chemistry from Juniors with the game sense and power they've developed in the time since, it's one two three, goal goal goal.

“Hell yeah, baby!” Kent roars when Zimms sends the puck sailing past Hartford's goalie. He crashes into Zimms for a celly. “That's how we fucking do it, Zimms!”

Zimms grins down at him, and Kent's heart just goes boom boom, like always, before he pulls away to get off the ice for the shift change.

Fortham, the mammoth enforcer on the Whalers, nudges Kent on his way back to the bench, undoubtedly the prelude to some bullshit.

“Hey, Parson. Happy you get to suck Zimmermann's dick again?”

And yep, there it is.

“Don't think his boyfriend would like that too much. Why? You spend a lot of time thinking about Jack's dick?”

Fortham, predictably, turns brick red and sputters. The Falcs are up by two with half a period to go, so Kent just winks and gets back to his bench.

“Why are you winking at the other team, Parson?” Thirdy asks when Kent gets back to the bench.

“Making plans for later,” Kent says.

Sometimes he's pretty funny.

 

It's a little less funny when it turns out that Fortham was mic'd up, so the whole damn thing got caught on audio and camera, down to the wink. That fucking idiot. That's how you get fucking fined for being a homophobic prick.

Anyway, Kent ends up on Buzzfeed again. The guys react by staging a dramatic reading of reaction Tweets in the locker room.

“My favorite comment,” Thirdy announces, “is 'why's this fuckboy sound so gallant?' Because I think it captures Parser well.”

“I like this one with the Will Smith gif,” Guy says. He neatly dodges the roll of tape that Kent throws at him. “'Oh, my bro's gay? This is how you ally, right?' And then Parser, and then Will Smith saying Parse is confused but he's got the spirit.”

Tater looks up from his phone and adds, “B says tell Parser thanks but maybe leave chirping to the professionals next time.”

Kent laughs, but he's watching Zimms out of the corner of his eye. Zimms, who's--

Laughing, too. Not freaking out. Not hiding in the bathroom, taking too many pills, waiting for Kent to drag him out and make him eat something, hold him steady--

That's not what Zimms needs from Kent. No, hold up, Zimms doesn't need Kent at all, not anymore, not for anything but beautiful passes.

And that's--

“Okay, next time someone asks me about any of your dicks I'm gonna use vivid imagery,” Kent says. It's fine. It's—actually fine.

But shit. His name is out there next to gay stuff, and maybe people are going to start digging, and it's been like two years since he seriously dated anyone--

It's probably time to get a girlfriend.

 

Kent makes Tater go with him to the bar. 'Local creep bad at hitting on women, clearly trying to make up for it with his money' is not how Kent wants this to go down, and he's rusty. The last girl he dated was really cool, and except for the part where Kent's gay he'd like to end up in something similar for his next relationship. But he met Gretchen at the animal shelter so that was really sheer dumb luck, he hasn't usually done well just out there on his own, trying to talk to women with like, intention.

So, Tater.

But unfortunately Tater hears a woman with black hair say “Grand Prix qualifiers” about ten seconds after they get their beers, and immediately bonds with her because she's heard of figure skating before. They're engaged in some kind of loud debate about—maybe ice dancing? It's hard to tell—within a minute. So Kent's basically standing there with his beer, like a huge third wheel.

“Does he do this a lot?” This is from the girl who had previously been talking to Tater's new best friend. She's got on horn-rimmed glasses and a bemused expression. Her shirt says “everything happens for a reason, and that reason is usually physics.”

Kent shrugs. “I think all the figure skating groupies do, they're always stoked to find another one in the wild.”

The girl laughs. “True enough, my friend's definitely done this before. I'm Kelsey.”

“Kent. I like your shirt.” There, that's normal.

“Oh?” Kelsey raises her eyebrows. “You like physics?”

Okay. Kent can do this without sounding like a dumbass. “Well, I've been kind of learning about it recently. By which I mean a fifth-grader has been telling me about his classes and I kind of look it all up on Khan Academy later so I can help him with his homework.”

“Your son?” she asks. Excuse him. Does Kent look old enough to have an eleven year old?

“My friend's grandson. I'm pretty sure he's just humoring me. He's way smarter than me, I don't think he needs my help at all,” Kent admits.

And yep, still a dumbass, judging by the way Kelsey's eyebrows go even higher.

“So what have you learned?” she asks, smiling a little. Kent smiles back, despite himself. Okay, so he's no genius. He's at least got some new vocab to show off.

“For every action you get an equal and opposite reaction, which we can physically demonstrate with a balloon-powered car,” Kent says. She laughs, but it's light, friendly. “So you're a mad scientist, I guess?”

“I'm getting my Ph.D. in physics at Brown,” Kelsey says. “So I guess we'll see sometime in the next year or two when I'm really sick of my dissertation. Not counting out super villainy.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. Is that a flirty thing? Should Kent be flirting back? How does he do that?

Oh, right. He ducks his head a little and grins, tucks his thumb into his beltloop. “What you're saying is that I should be asking you about if gravity effects objects based on weight? That's our next worksheet.”

“We could go toss stuff off the roof and you can find out,” Kelsey offers, and Kent laughs. It's going—kinda well.

Except Kent must have forgotten to disclose the point of this outing to his supposed wingman, because about right when Kent's starting to actually think that he could possibly be getting somewhere, freaking Zimms and Bittle show up.

“Hey, Parson,” Bittle says from behind Kent. Kent turns around, and yep, it's the exact people he did not want to see tonight. “Did anyone tell you that you're a reaction gif now?”

Kelsey peers around Kent's shoulder, and Kent's heart sinks a little. She's not going to go on a date with him if she realizes he's kinda famous. She's definitely too smart for that shit. Kent was planning to kind of dodge the question until the charm initiative worked.

“Oh my god, I think I watch your vlog,” Kelsey says, delighted, which was—not what Kent was expecting. “Eric Bittle, right? Oh my god! I love your videos.”

“Oh!” Bittle says, pinking up. “Well, yes, I am. That's so sweet!”

“They'll be at this for a minute,” Jack says, drawing Kent away by the elbow, towards an empty spot at the bar. “Where's Tater?”

“He—uh, disappeared,” Kent says, craning his neck. He spots Tater and the other girl at a table, still looking like they're comfortably yelling together about figure skating. “He's over there. There's this girl—what are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here? Whatever IPA's on tap, you can put it on his tab,” Jack says to the bartender. Kent rolls his eyes but nods. Once he's got his beer, Jack adds in an undertone, “Were you flirting with that girl?”

Um.

“I—why, did it look like it wasn't going well? She wasn't doing like, 'get me out of here' signals, right?” Kent looks over his shoulder, but Kelsey's still talking to Bittle about pies or something, and it's not like she'd still be freaked out--

“Parse, focus.” Zimms puts a hand on Kent's shoulder. It's—warm. Nice. Kent can practically feel Jack's calluses through the thin fabric of his specially-chosen Sexy Straight Guy Shirt, which is just one of Kent's normal shirts that's also a nice green color. Kent's great at acting straight. “Why are you flirting with a woman?”

“Uh.” Because Kent would like to not have anyone discover he is gay, and dating women is a pretty good way to do that? Kent's a great boyfriend, or at least he's never had any complaints. He was an usher at his ex Vanessa's wedding last year. “This feels like a loaded question. I'm—look, I can date, okay? I want to be dating.”

Zimms looks down at him. His eyes are—very blue. Kent swallows hard, feels the blue of Jack's eyes track the movement of his throat, and--

“Okay,” Zimms says, throaty, deeper than Kent remembers. His hand moves just slightly on Kent's shoulder, so his thumb grazes the line of Kent's throat. Jack takes a sip of his beer. “Do you want to drink that? Come on, close your tab.”

Bewildered, Kent does. Jack keeps the hand on Kent's shoulder to steer him over to where Bittle and Kelsey are still chatting about—bread? Something with yeast.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack says. “Sorry to cut you short, but we should get going now that we've got this one, yeah?”

Bittle gives Jack a weird look. They do that telepathic communication couple thing, and then Bittle says, “Sure thing, honey. Lovely to meet you, Kelsey.”

“Uh, bye,” Kent says, still confused, as Jack propels him out of the bar and into the street. He shivers—yet again, New England has tricked him into not bringing a coat.

“Care to tell me what's goin' on, sweetheart?” Bittle asks Jack. Jack's hand tightens on Kent's shoulder, just a bit, just for a second. Then it's gone entirely.

“Parse was there to pick up women,” Jack says.

Bittle looks surprised. “Oh! But. Parson, aren't you--”

“Yeah, but--” Kent scans the street, but it's not like Providence is exactly hopping at eight PM on a Sunday night. “Listen, it's not like I was going to be a dick about it, I don't like, _use_ women or anything. I'm a good boyfriend, I always like them--”

“So you were, what? Hoping to get her to date you so you can fake it better?” Jack growls. His face is shadowed and strange in the orange light from the street lamp.

Kent shrugs, pushing all his energy into a casual vibe. It's cool, it's all cool. “Look, you can call any of my exes and ask them if they'd take it back. I mean, fuck, Zimms. I'll take what I can get, right? I get sick of being alone sometimes. It's nice to have somebody.”

“You're not doing that,” Jack says flatly. His hand is back on Kent's shoulder, then it's sliding around the back of Kent's head, Zimms' fingers threading through Kent's hair. “No, Kenny. You're not _doing_ that, you're not _alone_ and you're not doing that anymore.”

“Honey.” Bittle interrupts, and Jack takes a deep breath like he's breaking through water to fresh air. He lets go of Kent and steps away. Bittle's frowning at the two of them. “Why don't you go get the car.”

It's not a suggestion. Jack throws Kent one last unreadable look and storms off. Kent waits until he's out of earshot and lets out the breath he's been holding, feeling the adrenaline rush through his body like he's about to go on the ice.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Kent asks Bittle, just to confirm he's not the only one feeling that way.

Instead of agreeing, or explaining, or something, anything, Bittle just says icily, “Why would you try to do something that's never going to make you happy?”

Happy? That's not what it's all _about_. Kent's—look, he's got everything he's ever wanted. He's pretty much the best player in the NHL, he's got two Art Ross trophies, a Calder, and a Stanley Cup ring, he's--

“I'm living the dream, Bittle. And me talking to some girl at the bar is none of your fucking business. Or Jack's.”

Bittle laughs, a little mean, the way that got Kent's interest in the first place way back at Marty's barbecue. “Don't act like you don't want it to be Jack's business.”

And that—that lands, right in the gut like a nasty check. “Bittle. Fuck.”

No. No, nope, this is not happening. Kent is not going to burn down this weird, clearly fragile peace he's managed to find with Zimms just because—what, because Jack's still a headcase sometimes? Because he's decided to freak out over nothing?

“It's not like that,” Kent protests, not sure what he's even arguing against.

Bittle looks up at Kent, jaw set, eyes glinting. “Well, judging by tonight, he wants it to be his business, too.”

Kent can feel it in his throat, his stomach, everywhere: the moment that he's backed into the corner, when he's got a choice between fight or flight, but something's gotta give or he'll explode. Traditionally, he's chosen fight, and that's led him—well, it's led him right here to this sidewalk, with Eric Bittle.

“I gotta go,” Kent says. He takes a step back, another. “I gotta—I'm sorry.”

“Parson,” Bittle says, but Kent's going, gone, down the block to where he parked his car.

Kent gets in and drives home, trying the whole time to forget about Bittle getting smaller and smaller in his rear view mirror.

 


	3. the talking leads to--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luckily, Kent has surrounded himself with people that cannot process emotions, and so he escapes having some kind of talk with Bittle and Zimms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Super overwhelmed by the amazing response to this. We are apparently doing a much slower burn than I originally planned, so that's exciting? 
> 
> Warnings: Ableist language!

Luckily, Kent has surrounded himself with people that cannot process emotions, and so he escapes having some kind of talk with Bittle and Zimms. Kent is content to regard the evening as The Night Zimms Lost His Mind and pretend it never happened. Bittle and Zimms seem like they're down with that, judging by the way neither of them says a word to him about the whole thing. Well, Jack doesn't. Kent hasn't actually seen Bittle, which probably helped. It's definitely a relief.

Angelica thinks Kent's full of shit.

“Sounds like you want to talk about it,” she says after he's given her a highly-edited, less gay—okay, almost completely fabricated--version of the story. They're in her kitchen, doing the dishes from Sunday lunch. Kent's washing, Angelica's drying. It's been a week since The Night Zimms Lost His Mind, luckily with a quick roadie from Monday to Wednesday so Kent didn't have to deal with the whole dinner thing.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Kent says. “But did he sound, like—I don't even know.”

“Sounds like he was upset, if you ask me,” Angelica says. “But what do I know about managing personal relationships, I've just been married for fifty years.”

“Forty eight,” her husband, Ben, pipes up from where he's doing a crossword puzzle at the kitchen table. Kent knew he was paying attention.

“I can round up if it's been more than ten,” Angelica says, with the warmth of an old argument. Then she adds to Kent, “Kid, you know you've got to talk to that boy of yours.”

“Jack's not my boy.” Kent feels like that has been made abundantly clear. Also, yikes, maybe he didn't make it sound straight enough. Maybe it doesn't help that Jack is famously not-straight now.

“Didn't say Jack,” Ben points out. Angelica balls up her towel and throws it at Ben, nailing him on the head. He throws the towel back wordlessly and Angelica catches it neatly, starts drying again. What Kent would like to know is why the hell was he drafted to teach Pete how to throw a baseball when they've got ringers right in the family?

“You hush. He's right though, nobody said Jack. Sorry to say it but I'm pretty sure neither of you two is the brains of the outfit,” Angelica says.

“Ouch,” Kent says, but yeah, that's fair enough. “So what, I just ask Bittle what the hell's going on?”

“Only if you want to figure it out,” Angelica says. She shrugs, moving on. “Now, what all are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, I called the hospital and they said I can come and help set up the dinner in the kid's cancer ward,” Kent says, perking up a little. He'll miss the nurses and stuff from the Vegas hospital, but he sent a card and a donation so it should be cool.

“Is that a thing with your whole team?” Angelica asks.

“What? No, but I was thinking of asking Tater to come, since he's not American.” It'll be tough to drag Tater away from any holiday involving food, but it's not like the hospital will take all day. It's more like a lunch, the kids get tired pretty early.

“Well, dinner around here starts at four,” Angelica says briskly. “And I'm not going to guarantee anything'll be left past five or so, except for dessert.”

“I love dessert, and I think I can make it by four,” Kent says. But. “Are you sure you want me to come? It'll be crowded, right?”

“Wouldn't have asked if we didn't want you to come,” Ben says. He looks up from his crossword and gives Kent an assessing look. “But you'll want to keep your eyes to yourself around our nieces, kid.”

“Yes, sir.” Not really a problem, for a lot of reasons. Kent tries not to dump garbage in his own backyard. “I can't come over next Sunday, I'm supposed to go to this poker game at Guy's house.”

“Well, we'll be here before and after.” Angelica finishes drying the last plate. “Now. Do you want to sneak out before Mari shows up and makes you run lines with her?”

 

Thanksgiving is loud, messy—kind of awesome, honestly. The kids at the hospital were all obsessed with Tater, and Tater was pretty excited about making so many new tiny friends. So Kent will probably have a buddy to do this with him sometimes, which is awesome.

“Going to B and Jack's?” Tater asks when they're leaving the hospital. “B said there will be five kinds of pie!”

“Nah, I've got plans.” Kent was very carefully put in charge of bringing extra rolls.

“Store-bought,” Angelica specified.

“We don't trust you to season anything right,” Ben added.

So Kent shows up with a bag of store-bought rolls, and is immediately admitted to the noise and bustle of Angelica's house—the kids Kent knows, a bunch he doesn't, some nieces and nephews, Angelica's sister Ruth, who he's been dying to meet from the stories Mariela tells. He ends up seated in the middle of the table, knocking elbows and passing dishes around, warm and about as happy as he's been in months. Holidays rule.

“Holy shit, you're Kent Parson,” the niece sitting next to Kent says. She's got huge glasses and a red sweatshirt. Hey, actually, Kent knows that logo.

“Oh, you go to Samwell? My buddy went there. I visited a few times.” Kent scoops some more macaroni and cheese onto his plate. “What are you majoring in?”

“Oh my god,” the girl says, faintly. She clears her throat and says, “Um. Theater. But actually I manage the hockey team?”

“Sweet. You're, uh--” what was her name? The scary chick at Zimms' weird frat house? “Lardo Jr.? They give you a hockey nickname too?” Kent asks.

“Foxtrot,” she says. “Because we've got Whiskey and Tango--”

“Oh, right on. We had Bert and Ernie on the Aces, Ernie just got stuck with his because Bert came first.” Kent takes a bite of the sweet potato casserole and his eyes roll back in his head. “Yo, who made this? It is the bomb. Can I get the recipe?”

“Oh my god,” Foxtrot says again. “Connor is not going to _believe_ this.”

 

So Thanksgiving rules, and then Kent has to clean his apartment and emotionally prepare Purrson for visitors because the Aces are coming to town in a couple of days. Kent is—excited to see Jeff and Scraps. Not so excited about actually playing against his old team. Plus Jeff and Scrappy want evidence that he's “put something on the fucking walls, Parser, we remember when you got your house.” So Kent has to put some shit on the walls.

The Falcs have got a bit of a homestand—the Bruins come on Friday so the Falcs can kick them all around the rink. Luckily Zimms' weird temporary rage hasn't translated into anything on the ice. He's still right there when Kent passes, still sending pucks right to Kent's stick for goals, and it's just fucking beautiful.

“You're a fucking beauty, Parse,” Jack roars, tapping their helmets together after the third Falcs goal of the night, courtesy of the Zimmermann-Parson No-Look One-Timer. Kent rides the high of that through the rest of the game, wired from the way that Jack looked at him.

“Going out tonight, Parser,” Tater informs him after media's cleared out of the locker room.

“Yeah, man,” Kent agrees. He's fizzing, ready to go out and throw himself into the feeling, ride it out.

It's kind of a surprise when Kent gets to the bar—the Falcs called it a club but honestly, Kent just moved from Las Vegas. He knows from clubs and this place doesn't cut it even if there is a dance floor. If they serve food it's not a club. Kent is explaining this to Tater, loudly, in one of the booths the Falcs have claimed. The rest of the guys who were sitting with him and Tater have ditched, probably in disgust about Tater, who is eating two full-size dinners plus one of Kent's side dishes.

“Why are you like this, man?” Kent asks, watching in horror as his mashed potatoes disappear down Tater's throat. The open air at his right closes in as Zimms slides into the booth next to Kent, his first appearance since the locker room. “Zimms, why is he like this?”

“They make 'em big in Siberia,” Zimms offers. He throws his arm up over the booth, so it's nearly draped across Kent's shoulders. “Did you get enough to eat before he moved in on you?”

“Yeah, I had chicken, and I guess Tater's afraid of regular vegetables so I got to keep my green beans,” Kent says, still distracted by the sheer amount of food that Tater has put away since they got here. Like, Kent's been around athletes his whole life, he understands needing fuel, but Tater's something else. “I guess Bittle fed you?”

“Bits always feeds me,” Jack says. “You could've come, we missed dinner this week.”

“And miss this?” Kent gestures at Tater, who is finishing off the last bite of the potatoes and steak. Tater belches and settles back, patting his stomach.

“Okay,” Tater says. He climbs out of the booth, leaving just Kent and Zimms sitting there. “I go find women who impressed with your stupid car, Parse. Jack, go sit with marrieds.”

“They all already left,” Jack says. “If I wanted to get chirped about being old I'd have just stayed home.”

“Hey, my car is sweet!” Kent yells at Tater's retreating back. “Asshole. Hey, you hate clubs, what are you doing here?”

“Why? You want me to head out?” Jack grins, eyes sparkling at Kent under his baseball cap. Oh, shit. This is Zimms chirping, teasing Kent. Kent has had two beers, is still surfing the good energy from the game. In short, he is not prepared to deal with this responsibly.

Kent leans back against the booth, a little closer to where Jack's hand is resting. “Nah. Do you want to play Greatest Hockey Team Ever?”

Zimms' whole face lights up. “Oh, shit,” he breathes. “I haven't done that in--”

Eight years, give or take.

Kent starts with, “Goalie: Darth Vader.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack protests immediately. “He's old. I saw that movie, he's super old when they take the helmet off.”

“He's got the Force, dude. That's gotta overcome any physical limitations. Plus he kicks Luke's ass and Luke is super young and fit,” Kent points out.

Jack shakes his head. “You're thinking that the NHL wouldn't make rules outlawing the use of the Force? Really? I don't buy it.”

They hammer it out, taking it in turns until they've got the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles playing D, William Wallace--“the real one, not from the movie,” Zimms specifies—as a center, and Jake the Dog from Adventure Time playing left wing.

“He's a dog,” Kent protests. “Dogs can't skate.”

“He can shapeshift,” Jack argues. “Listen, Shitty made me watch about a thousand episodes of that show, I know what Jake can do.”

“Then I want Pikachu on right wing, and he can just electrocute the other team,” Kent says. He lets Zimms sputter against that one for a minute and looks across the bar—Tater's been gone for a while, they spent like ten minutes debating on the Ninja Turtles alone.

“He's too small,” Zimms eventually gets out, instead of just making indignant noises. “Pikachu—he's supposed to be a _mouse_ , Parse, that won't work.”

“Then I want a stegosaurus,” Kent says, just so he can watch Zimms really lose his shit. Across the bar, Tater is talking to two or three women. He looks up, like he can tell Kent's looking at him, and waggles his eyebrows. So, Kent could probably go over there and talk to one of the women, and maybe get a date out of it and--

“--too _slow_ , I don't know what you're thinking,” Jack is saying, definitely worked up about having a stegosaurus playing right wing. Then he quiets down, tracks Kent's eyeline. He asks, “Are you going to go over there?”

He sounds—not hostile, exactly. But maybe the beginnings of it. Like he doesn't want Kent to leave, or to _want_ to leave. And here's the thing—Kent waited eight years to get his best friend back, for Jack to want Kent around. Not even because he's in love with Jack, even though that's tangled up in the whole thing so deep Kent doesn't know if he'll ever get rid of it. But because—there's nothing like this. Zimms, who knows Kent. Zimms, who _knows_ Kent and is still sitting here, picking this, talking to Kent instead of going home to his boyfriend.

Kent shakes his head at Tater, just a little. Tater shrugs and turns back to the women he's talking to. Kent feels Zimms relax. Jack's hand, the one that's been hovering at the back of Kent's head for the last half hour, closes the distance and makes contact.

It's a simple touch, just Jack's fingers, his beautiful soft, fast hands on Kent's hair, thumb idly tracing the nape of Kent's neck. It's electric, it's—too much, not enough. Kent hears the way he inhales, sharp, needy.

Jack is looking at him. Just looking, for a minute, eyes dark in the low light of the bar. And then Jack smiles, this slow wash of happiness over his face like Kent hasn't made happen, hasn't seen, since they were eighteen and in love, that perfect summer.

“Who's to say the stegosaurus wasn't super fast, have you seen that video of the hippo running? It could be like that,” Kent says, breathing through the moment, passing over it. Jack's with Bittle. That's a good thing: Zimms is happy, and Kent can't fuck it all up, fuck Jack up, if he's not in charge. This is enough. Jack here, smiling at him, is enough.

Zimms just looks at him for a second, breathing through it with him, Kent thinks. Coming back to reality, where this can't happen. Jack takes his hand away, puts it back along the top of the booth, back into deniable territory. Then he starts listing the reasons that a stegosaurus wouldn't be good for the speed of the top line, and yeah.

Kent's pretty much right where he wants to be.

 

Kent doesn't go to the airport to wait for the Aces or anything, but he is up early, the first one at the rink for practice and then bouncing around his apartment, waiting for the text.

Finally he gets to go pick up Scrappy and Jeff.

The first thing Jeff says is, “Parser, can we talk about your penis complex?”

“This car is awesome,” Kent says. The Benz is cool, okay? He adjusts his sunglasses in the rearview mirror. “Enough room for your dumb ass.”

“I bet it's not even four wheel drive,” Jeff says. He starts messing with the passenger seat, scooting it back to fit his freakishly long legs.

“How do I open the trunk?” Scrappy asks plaintively from the back of the car, so Kent gets out to do it for him.

Having the boys in the apartment makes it feel like home. That's cheesy and probably stupid, but Purrs chirps enthusiastically at Scrappy and rubs against Jeff's ankles, and they make fun of him for the art prints he clearly purchased in a panic when he realized they'd be coming, and it's--

“Holy shit, am I glad you're here,” Kent manages to say, and they don't even chirp him too hard, except Jeff puts up story on Instagram about how much Kent loves him.

“Are you gonna feed us or what?” Scrappy demands, so Kent takes them to a restaurant that Tater loves for its portion sizes and understanding waitstaff. It's perfect, and familiar, and Kent wants them to get traded to Providence because he can't think about going back to Vegas without his gut twisting. It's funny, how quickly his life turned into memories.

“Hey,” Scrappy says, reaching into his wallet and producing a sheet of paper. “I've got something for you.”

It's an ultrasound picture, the little body blobby and weird, and Kent loves it intensely, endlessly.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, clutching the creased picture closer. “Who is this?”

“That's your goddaughter,” Scrappy says, beaming. “We just got that done yesterday, we were waiting until Maggie was sixteen weeks.”

“I can't believe you didn't fucking tell me,” Jeff bitches. “I live in your neighborhood. Share, Parser.”

But Kent can't pay attention to that. He's too busy scanning the lines of the picture, over her tiny, perfect belly and her tiny, perfect toes.

Wait a second.

“You said she's my goddaughter?” Kent asks, double checking, already possessive. Jeff takes advantage of his momentary distraction to steal the picture. Kent loves her, she's so beautiful, and he can't wait until she wins gold at the Olympics.

“We don't want her getting jealous of Milo,” Scrappy says. “Everyone knows that Uncle Parse is the best at presents.”

“Oh my god,” Kent says. It's staggering, the way Scrappy just says stuff, makes Kent part of his family and never acts like he regrets it. “She's getting so many presents, dude.”

“You bought your way in,” Jeff complains, because he's bitter over not being Scrappy Jr.'s favorite.

But Scrappy and Jeff come back to his place to nap, Scrappy sacking out in the guest room while Jeff takes the master, and Kent puts the ultrasound up on the fridge before he passes out on the couch. This is the pattern they made when they were Jeff's rookies, because Kent accidentally set the luck up that way by sleeping on Jeff's couch, and then the next year Scrappy was billeting and Kent couldn't just break a superstition. If they're together, not on the road—this is how they do it.

When he falls asleep, vaguely pissed off at the volume of Scrappy's snores, it's maybe the best Kent's felt since that day in Hodge's office.

“Wake up, children,” Jeff booms, just like always, when they have to head to the rink. “We've got hockey to play.”

Yeah, they do.

 

Jeff and Scrappy aren't sore losers, which is lucky because frankly: the Aces? Not doing so great without Kent. There's a pretty cool moment in the second period where Kent bellows, “Trust me!” at Zimms, who fucking _does_ and sends the puck over so Kent can zoom around Bert and Ernie for a goal, topshelf. Honestly, having Snow in the goal makes the whole thing a lot harder than Kent expected, but still--

“That's the stuff, Parser,” Jack says into Kent's hair, while Tater, moved back up to first line winger to try it on for size, roars approvingly over their heads. It's lucky they've got Tater's physicality, honestly—while Kent will never regret encouraging the goon shit from his guys, since it made them spectacular, it kind of does suck to play opposite it. Except now it's not goons plus Kent Parson speed, it's just goons.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Kent snaps when Scraps tries to take him out at the knees. “I am telling Milo you used the kind of touch that makes me feel sad.”

“Oh, come on,” Scrappy groans. “Don't do the approved language shit.”

“You tried to hurt my body.” Kent grins. He's going to get the preschool guilt-trip going on Scrappy's ass. “Sucks to suck, dude.”

The Falcs pull out the win in overtime, courtesy of Guy barreling through Kent's former beautiful, cultivated defense. If he hadn't snitched on exactly all their weaknesses, he'd feel ashamed of that poor showing.

“Not cool,” Jeff says in the tunnel when Kent goes to grab him and Scrappy after the game. “Totally not cool, dude.”

“Shouldn't've kept using my plays.” Kent has no remorse. He leads them through the warren of the Dunkin' Donuts Center towards the parking lot. “So the Falcs say they're going out, but--”

“No,” Scrappy says.

“Let them take Snow, he's been jazzed about it for a week,” Jeff adds.

That is kind of exactly what Kent wanted to hear—he's not into the idea of balancing Scrappy and Jeff with the Falcs. They're heading out to go back to Kent's apartment when they run into Bittle and Jack.

“Oh, hey, Zimmermann,” Jeff says, that weird casual shit where you've never actually met each other but you know everyone's name. “You been taking care of our boy, here?”

“Uh, trying,” Zimms says. “He doesn't make it too easy.” Bless Jack's monotone, it's perfect for this.

“Ha fucking ha,” Kent says. “That's Bittle. Bittle, these are my guys.”

“Hello, guys,” Bittle says, smirking a little.

“Oh, you're the guy from TV. That's sweet,” Jeff says, with his big dumb sincere face. “I've got a gay cousin.”

“How thrilling for you,” Bittle says.

Kent resists the urge to hide his face in his hands.

“Anyway, we've gotta head out,” Kent says. “See ya later.”

“We get to have a sleepover because coach said it was cool. We're gonna braid each other's hair,” Jeff adds.

“It is very thrilling for us,” Scrappy confirms.

“Oh, Jesus,” Kent says. He grabs Scrappy's arm and flees, hoping Jeff will follow after.

“So _that's_ Zimmermann,” Jeff says when they're safe in Kent's car.

“What the hell does that mean?” Kent asks, nerves prickling. Okay, so he spent his rookie year, the year he billeted with Jeff, freaking out about Jack. There was one night that Kent vaguely remembers involved both whiskey and tears, possibly some blubbering about why Kent couldn't save him. That doesn't mean they're going to _talk_ about it.

“Nothing, Parser,” Scrappy says. “Who wants to hear about all the places Milo's screamed in public this week?”

“Yes,” Kent maybe yells, seizing on the opportunity. “Tell me about my genius boy.”

“I thought the people at the grocery store were going to call the cops on us,” Scrappy begins, and Kent settles in for the story.

 

Scrappy falls asleep first like a nerd. Kent valiantly resists the urge to doodle on his face, and instead Jeff and Kent haul him into the guest room.

“You know,” Jeff says, panting with the effort of holding up Scrappy's heavy ass. “If there was something you wanted to tell me. About Zimmermann. I'm here to listen.”

“He was never a cokehead, that's a rumor,” Kent says. His heart beats faster. Jeff squints at Kent's face in the darkness.

“You know it's too late for me to back out of this shit, Parser, even if I wanted to,” Jeff says, mostly to the air over Kent's left ear.

And that's--

“Thanks,” Kent croaks. Maybe because it's late, maybe because it's dark, maybe because Scrappy is still snoring even though they just literally threw him into the guest bed, and it gives the whole thing an aura of unreality, he says, “Maybe—give me a while? And then I might--”

Jeff's hand is a familiar weight on his shoulder. Kent remembers being eighteen, twenty, only six months younger than he is now, happy, angry, sad--Jeff. “Whenever you feel like it. I've got ears to hear you with.”

 

It takes until the next day for Kent to panic, and then--

He fucking panics.

What the hell did Jeff mean, he's got ears? To hear what? If there's anything Kent wants to _tell_ him? Was one second in a hallway with him and Zimms enough, and if so _what the hell do the Falcs think_?

“Hey, I was thinking. Could we see how Tater and I do?” Kent asks the coach. Luckily Kent's built up enough goodwill that Coach is cool about it, just shrugs and lets them play around with lines so Kent gets a whole practice to avoid Zimms and do his breathing exercises.

Kent's actually got pretty good chemistry with Tater—nothing on him and Zimms their first time out, but lightning only strikes once. It's still enough to have Coach seeming pleased, maybe willing to try it out again. Kent is happy about that. He is.

Jack, not so much.

Zimms sticks to Kent in the locker room after practice, clinging and moody. It's kind of familiar: Kent used to pay attention to other people in their school, sometimes, use the whole dumb American thing to flirt. There was this guy—Jean-Luc, fuck, what happened to him? Probably Kent got busy with hockey and never talked to him again like a dick—anyway, there was this guy before he and Zimms hooked up the first time, back when Kent was trying not to shit where he eats. Jack used to get all weird when Kent would hang out with the theater kids and help build sets or whatever, showing off his muscles so Jean-Luc would look at him.

Right now Jack is acting like Kent just spent the morning flexing at Jean-Luc, instead of, you know, playing hockey with their teammates.

“C'mon,” Zimms says eventually. “Let's go to my house and go on a run.”

“I don't want to go on a run,” Kent gamely attempts. Zimms just looks at him.

Kent gets in the car. Kent goes on a run with Jack. Kent gets his ass kicked because Zimms is a freak in yellow sneakers.

“You know, George can keep up with me,” Zimms says, jogging backwards for a few strides and grinning at Kent like an _asshole_. Kent hates him.

“George is a badass, I'm just here to look pretty and sell tickets,” Kent pants. It's Tuesday, so-- “I gotta go shower and get Bittle's flowers, dude.”

“Dude,” Jack repeats, making a face. But he releases Kent to shower at his own damn apartment, hang with Purrs for a bit, and run by La Vie En Rose, where he grabs a bunch of hyacinths and endures Angelica's raised eyebrows.

When he gets back to Zimms' house, Jack and Bittle are having an argument. Kent can tell from the tension in the air.

It's awkward, and obvious, and possibly Kent's fault based on the wobbly smile that Bittle offers when he comes to answer Kent's knock on the front door.

“These are gorgeous,” Bittle says when he takes the flowers, sounding a little put out about it.

“I aim to please,” Kent jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Instead, Bittle's gaze just sharpens at him, not meanly, just—intense.

“I hear that you did well with Tater today,” Bittle says. It is, Kent realizes, the first time he's really talked to Bittle since that night at the bar.

“I guess,” Kent says. “It's good to have a solid mix of lines in case of injury, right?”

“We're not going to get injured,” Jack says, disgruntled. Bittle and Kent give him twins looks of disgust.

“Jack, don't tempt fate,” Bittle says.

“Holy shit, Zimmermann, why don't you go and jinx it?” Kent complains.

“Don't get sidetracked,” Jack says, and that makes Bittle sober up, nod solemnly. There's something about it, that moment, that makes Kent shut up and pay attention. Bittle and Jack are both looking at him now, eyes intense.

“So, uh, did you cook or what? Should I chop something?” Kent asks, trying to sidle out of the way they're looking at him.

“Parse,” Jack says, all low and meaningfully. Kent can't deal with that, not on top of whatever the hell is going on with Jeff and his all-knowing shit. This doesn't feel like the time or place for some kind of emotional talk—they're standing in the foyer, for one, and Kent is pretty hungry, for two.

“Zimms,” he says back gravely, trying to make it a joke, but Zimms just—steps into Kent's space. Kent opens his mouth, almost definitely to spew some kind of bullshit, but then--

He's getting hugged. His face is just squished up against Jack's shoulder, and Kent's being squeezed like a teddy bear or something.

“What is happening? Why is it happening?” he asks, getting a mouth full of Jack's shirt in the process.

“You've been weird,” Jack says. Kent would just like to say that Jack's one to talk about _being weird_. “You don't have to—we're not going to push you, okay? You're our friend.”

That sounds kind of like bullshit, if you ask Kent—Bittle has some serious reservations, at the very least. But Kent remembers becoming friends with Jack. It was kind of like kindergarten: all Kent had to do was show up repeatedly, sometimes with snacks, and he was in. It would make sense for Jack to decide this, unilaterally, just like he decided it was over the first time.

Whatever, Kent's never stopped being Jack's friend.

“Yeah, dude, we're friends,” Kent says when he's able to free his mouth from Jack's shirt. “Kinda need to breathe, though.”

Jack lets go, but only enough for Kent to take a half step back. Now Jack's got his hands on Kent's shoulders, is looking him square in the eye. It's a lot. God, sometimes Kent misses when Jack was awkward-looking, because at least then he didn't have to deal with the hockey and the personality and the _face_.

“Kent,” Jack says. “Kenny.”

“Okay, Zimms, geez. I'll stop being weird, okay? And I'll stop trying to flirt in front of you, huh?” Kent tries on a grin, finds it's not too hard to make it stick.

“That would be appreciated,” Bittle says. “Now, do y'all mind if we eat? Some of us work for a living.”

“You film Youtube videos in this house,” Kent complains, but he shrugs off Jack's hands. Jack lets him go, sticks a little close as they go into the dining room. It's strange, to have Jack so close off the ice. Nice, but—Bittle's right there.

“I was workin' on recipes and a new blog post all day,” Bittle says. He smirks when he sees Kent's giant Canadian shadow, and that's--

It's not a threat, Kent realizes. Kent's not a threat, so off the radar that Bittle's fine with Jack's all-or-nothing approach to life, zero to “guess we have the same personal bubble from now on” in sixty seconds. And it's good, Kent decides. It's good that Bittle doesn't even think of Kent as someone that Jack would be interested in, because clearly he's _not_. And that's good.

They're friends, Kent reminds himself as he sits down at Jack and Bittle's table. They're friends, or something like it, and that's a good thing.

 

 

 


	4. another form of relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent's new therapist is fucking great, because she spends like two sessions trying to get him to communicate like an adult and then gives up and hands him some cards with Feelings Words on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One MILLION thanks to ravenreyamidala and rarefiednight for being wonderful, kind humans who helped me put commas around all the Valley Girl phrases and fuss at them about if the jokes are funny. They are both superstars and my gratitude is eternal. 
> 
> Warnings: Implied child abuse, implied death of a parent.

The worst part about Scraps having another kid, the part that Kent had blessedly forgotten about, is that Scrappy gets  _ ideas. _  He gets ideas about how they're going to talk to the kid to make her a self-actualized little person from day one, which Kent feels like is a lot of pressure to put on a baby. There's research involved about how what Scraps has started calling the baby's “kinship network” is going to do everything: dress her, teach her things, positively affirm that her drawings look like horses or whatever.

“Dude, I think he's snapped,” Kent says, calling in reinforcements.

“Do not act like I am responsible for what Brian does,” Maggie says. “I am doing my part. I am growing a person. I want to eat cheeseburgers at all hours of the day and he's out there measuring my potential mucus growth or whatever the fuck.”

“I have assigned reading.” Kent remembers the last time that Scrappy did this. It was when Milo's first word was “fuck.” After that they all had assigned reading.

“He put a pair of headphones on my stomach yesterday,” Maggie growls. “Do your damn reading.”

Kent does his damn reading. There's some about toddlers, too, because Scraps wants to use a “cohesive system” so they don't ever treat the new baby differently because she's a girl. Kent is down with this in general, but clearly Maggie and Scraps are gonna be better at the whole parenting thing by round two. That's kind of what practice does. He bets that Scrappy the Third won't be swearing at the age of one.

This book that Scraps has him reading is annoying, anyway, because it's all about how you have to accept tantrums because the feelings that kids feel are valid even when they're about stupid shit like not being allowed to have juice. Kent remembers being a kid, okay, the ages that they're talking about in this book—older than Scrappy Jr., but a kid—and if he'd pulled some of the shit that they're talking about kids doing, Kent's dad would've--

Kent thinks for a fucking millisecond about anyone doing anything like that to Milo, or the new baby, especially for shit they can't even  _ control _ \--

He wants to put his fist through the goddamn wall just thinking about it.

“Oh shit,” Kent realizes.

Time to go back to therapy.

 

Kent's new therapist is fucking great, because she spends like two sessions trying to get him to communicate like an adult and then gives up and hands him some cards with Feelings Words on them. They've got little pictures, too. Kent suspects they're for small children.

“It sounds like you stopped being allowed to express emotions without consequences when you were three,” Cheryl says. “So we're gonna set you up for success here.”

Kent flips through the cards. Happy, angry, sad--

“Hey, is confused really a feelings word?” Kent asks when he comes across that card. “Isn't that a brain thing?”

Cheryl gives him a deeply unimpressed look. Kent thinks she's the best—she looks and dresses like Ms. Frizzle, for one thing, and she also thinks that cats are great. “Where do you think feelings happen, Kent?”

“The—brain,” Kent guesses. “And the heart? Like the metaphorical heart.”

Anyway, Kent doesn't like, show anyone the cards or take them around, but he thinks about them sometimes, flips through them mentally. I'm happy, he thinks, petting Purrs, lacing up his skates, texting Jeff, Skyping with Maggie and Milo, learning why lilies are underrated from Angelica, watching Tater fail at pulling some dumb prank on Poots. 

He's happy.

Others that come into play are mostly annoyed, and, now that he knows it's a feeling, confused.

Cheryl says they are going to work on figuring out the building blocks for confused. She thinks he's defaulting to that when it's something he doesn't like to think about, like being sad or ashamed or whatever. Kent isn't sure: he thinks he may actually have this one right, because Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle are fucking  _ confusing _ .

It's a weird regression with Zimms, honestly, like Kent could blink and be seventeen, before he and Zimms got up the nerve to move past sexually charged cellies  into making out. He's on the ice, Zimms is there. He's sitting on the bench, Zimms is there. Kent's eyes and ears are full of Jack, and it's--

“Betcha that I can beat you around the rink,” Kent says to Zimms, who rolls his eyes.

“We all know who gets invited to fastest skate at All Star's, Parse,” Zimms says. “You don’t need to brag.”

“What are you, Zimmermann? Scared?” Kent asks, and just like that they're racing, and Kent is a kid again, free and easy, hockey is  _ fun _ , and he's got no idea about what's coming.

The next second, practically, or a week later at the bar, whatever, Zimms is frowning at Kent when he takes half a step towards Guy, who's got his girlfriend's college roommate visiting.

“Hey,” Zimms says. “You don't have to prove anything.”

And then his arm is around Kent's shoulders—briefly, but just enough to remind Kent that, yeah, okay. He doesn't want someone else.

So. Confusing. Because this isn't their first season in the Q, Jack and Kent both lit up with finding someone else as good as they were, stumbling towards something amazing. Jack already has something, somebody.

Which brings Kent to another source of confusion. Because if Kent didn't know any better he'd think Eric Bittle was, like, into him.

It starts one day in December, after Kent finally escapes from Jack's demands that they wind down after practice with a fucking ten mile run in the freezing cold. No thank you. Kent signs up for an after-school volunteer shift at the YMCA and then gets a swim in instead. It's nice—Kent knows he could afford a better gym, with a pool that isn't so crowded. He had his own pool in Vegas, one of those saltwater ones. Talk about privacy.

But this is how Kent learned to swim, how he always practiced when he was younger—the echoes of other people swimming next to him, kids laughing, way too much chlorine in the pool. He falls back into it, a couple times a week.

Bittle's standing at the edge of his lane when Kent finishes his ninth lap, just playing around after some butterfly.

“Hey,” Kent says, a little blinded by Bittle's neon-green suit. It fits him very well. “What's up? Can I—I'm on my ninth?” He gestures over his shoulder, already twitchy about not finishing.

Bittle sighs and rolls his eyes, but he makes a little shooing motion with his hand. Kent grins his thanks and pushes back off the wall, freestyles his way across the pool and back. Bittle's still standing there, and Kent can be done now if Bittle wants to talk.

“What's up? I didn't know you came here. Jack not keeping you in good style?” Kent asks. He heaves himself out of the water and shoves his goggles up. They'll mess up his hair, but what the hell doesn't?

Bittle glares at him. “Ha ha, Parson. I didn't know you were so—fast.”

“Oh, yeah, I swam until I was old enough for Bantam.” Kent shrugs. He's pretty out of practice. “I was All-American when I was fourteen. But I had to pick, and, you know. Hockey has money.”

“How did you do both?” Bittle asks faintly. “What, did you have a Time Turner? Did you give up  _ sleep _ ?”

“Jealous, Bittle?” Kent smirks, reaches around Bittle to grab his towel from the floor. He straightens up, and Bittle is—pink?

Kent is aware, suddenly, that he is wet, plus that he just basically bent down and shoved his ass at Bittle. He wraps the towel around his neck, self-conscious. “So what're you doing here?”

“I'm teaching a cooking class for some kids, for a video,” Bittle says. “Thought since I'm already here--” He shrugs.

“Oh, yeah, dude. Same. I mean, not cooking, or the video thing, but I let a bunch of third graders cream me in basketball when the coach feels like letting me.” The coach is a senior in high school, so he's pretty happy to let Kent mess around while he sits on the floor and fills out college applications. Hey, that reminds Kent-- “Do you know how to apply for financial aid for college? Aaron asked if I could look at it, but I got lost so quick, dude. I'm not exactly the brain trust, you know?”

“Aaron,” Bittle repeats. “That another one of your strays, Parson?”

Kent snorts. “Not likely, he's a pretty on-it kid. Actually it might be good if someone talked to him about Samwell.” Kent lowers his voice a little to add, “I think that 'one in four, maybe more' thing might be good.”

“I don't recall you bein' so fond of Samwell,” Bittle says tartly, crossing his arms over his chest. Kent frowns, thinking back. Jack's probably just told Bittle about Kent's meltdown when he found out that Jack was going to some little liberal arts school instead of somewhere that had won the Frozen Four in recent memory, where he could've just done one year and hopped back to the Draft.

“Oh, because I told Jack not to go there? Dude, everyone knows it's a gay school. I wanted him to get to the NHL.” Kent shrugs.

“And what, he couldn't make it if he wasn't straight?” Bittle spits. “You told him not to even  _ go _ to Samwell?”

Kent looks at Bittle, takes a second. Thinks about his cards. Confused. Angry. Sad?

“Dude,” he says. “I was-- _ you know _ . In the NHL. The shit I heard, just from the guys? They wouldn't've let him in back then if they knew. You saw what happened with the Aces when I. You know. Brought it up.”

“Well that's because your team was full of bigoted assholes,” Bittle says. “Look what the Falcs did, they celebrated him. You didn't think he could make it?”

“I wanted him to make it,” Kent says. He glances around. They're not attracting too much attention, luckily. Still, he takes a couple steps closer to the wall. Bittle steps with him.

“And what, you thought he needed to do it your way or not at all?” Bittle asks. “Not play on that shitty team of his?”

No, that's not it, fuck, Kent isn't explaining it right—oh, fuck, he did call Jack's team shitty, Bittle was totally there that night, too--

“I just wanted Jack,” Kent blurts out. He immediately feels himself turning red. Embarrassment. Kent doesn’t need a card to recognize that one. “Not like—I mean, okay. Yeah, like that. But. He was my best friend, too. He knew. About me. He was the only one that knew about me. And I knew about him. All about him, not just the bi thing, but the, ya know, anxiety stuff. I thought if I was there, if we were together--”

He breaks off. It's stupid. Kent couldn't take care of Jack when they were in the Q, he couldn't have done it even if Jack had come to Vegas. Vegas, Kent realizes, probably would have killed Jack.

“You thought you could give him hockey back,” Bittle says. His gaze sweeps over Kent, from his bare feet, slow across his chest, finally resting on Kent's face. Kent's red again, he can feel it. A different embarrassment this time. “Well, Parson. Maybe you weren't so bad after all.”

“Thanks for the endorsement,” Kent says, tacking on a grin. Bittle doesn't smile back, just scrutinizes him for a minute, and it makes Kent want to hide. No, show off. No--

“I gotta go get changed,” Kent says. “And you—they've got a class in here pretty soon, if you wanna swim you'd better--”

“Sure, Parson,” Bittle says. Is it Kent's imagination, or is his voice a little softer than usual?

 

After the pool thing, it's like—boom. 

Jack and Kent stumble through the back of one of Bittle's videos, wrestling over the remote to the TV, having spilled out of the den and around the house, and Bittle just says, “Boys!” in this fond, exasperated voice. Kent watches the video after Bittle uploads it, and it's still in there, Bittle making a series of faces at the camera while Kent and Jack fight their way through the kitchen. 

Kent may stare at the smile on Bittle's face in the video for longer than necessary. 

Lemon meringue pies appear in the rotation that Jack dutifully brings to the locker room. Kent is invited to Christmas Eve dinner, and Bittle actually looks a little disappointed when Kent makes an excuse not to come, one that is even true. He may have a deep desire to avoid Bob Zimmermann, but more importantly, he hasn't missed a Troy Family Christmas in years.

“Everyone's gonna be there,” Bittle pouts.

“I can—make it up to you?” Kent says. He is feeling confused again.

“New Year's,” Jack provides immediately. “Spend New Year's with us.”

As far as Kent knows they're already doing that, since Tater is throwing a party which he claims will involve explosions. Still--

“Yeah, New Year's.”

“It's settled,” Bittle confirms. He narrows his eyes at Kent. “Don't think you can wriggle out of this one, Parson.”

“Yes, sir,” Kent jokes, and doesn't examine the feeling it gives him when Bittle and Zimms give him twin looks of approval.

That's a problem for tomorrow.

 

Christmas is great—for one thing Kent is actually closer to Grandma Troy's house than ever before, so he joins the traffic on Christmas Eve morning and sings along with the radio all the way to Connecticut. He's already installed in the kitchen, taste-testing cookies, when Jeff drags his ass in off a red-eye flight.

“What's up, loser? Merry Christmas. Estelle was telling me about her USO days, why have I never seen pictures of this?” Kent shoves the rest of a cookie into his mouth and grins at Jeff through the crumbs.

“Stop flirting with my grandma, Parse,” Jeff says, and pounces on Kent for a hug so tight it cracks Kent's back. “It's good to see you, man. That was a sick wrister against the Habs.”

“It was, wasn't it?” Kent is going to have dirty dreams about that goal for years. Doesn't get better. “I liked the way you fell on your ass when you were playing the Ducks, that was a beaut.”

“You two have the bunkbeds again this year,” Estelle says, used to them after—God, is it eight Christmases? Nine?

Score. Kent loves the bunkbeds.

 

“Hey,” Kent says, heart pounding. It's late, dark, in the attic bedroom, the one Jeff and his brother spent every summer in when they were kids. They've probably got three hours max until a barrage of little Troy nieces and nephews come charging in here, yelling that it's technically morning, time for presents. Kent can't wait. He bought everyone except Jeff Nerf guns, it's gonna be epic.

“If you don't sleep, then Santa won't come,” Jeff says from the bottom bunk, grumpy.

If Kent does this, he can't take it back.

“Hey, man, I've got something to--” Kent needs eye contact. He scoots so he's peering over the top bunk into the darkness below. He can see Jeff, though, wearing pajamas for once because, you know, when the kids attack in the technically-morning they don't need to see their uncle in his boxers. Other than that, though, and maybe the bunkbeds thing, it's familiar. Kent slept in the bed across from Jeff on roadies, he slept in Jeff's spare room for a year, he--

He can do this.

“What's up, Parse?” Jeff asks.

“I've been thinking,” Kent says. He takes a breath. In, out. “About what you said last time.”

Jeff wakes up for real. He's looking up at Kent, waiting. He already knows, doesn't he? And if he doesn't, if he hasn't figured it out—Kent's sure. Pretty sure. Jeff's not going to kick him out or anything.

I'm gay, Kent thinks. I'm gay and I still love you, please still love me back.

“You know those rumors about me,” Kent starts. “In the Q, and, I don't know. Maybe about why I got traded. I don't know what management told you.”

“I've heard a couple things,” Jeff says, carefully. “About the Q. Not about the trade.”

“If they were true,” Kent says, and has to stop to breathe. Jeff waits him out. “You said that even if you wanted to back out--”

“I don't,” Jeff says, so sure it stops Kent short. “I don't want to back out, Parser. You've gotta know that.”

Kent does. He does. It's just--

Feelings. Scared. Nervous. Happy?

“I'm gay,” Kent says. A whoosh as the breath leaves his body, one he hadn't even known he was holding. “I'm gay and I'm shit scared it'll change things.”

Jeff pauses for a second. Then he rolls off the bunk and stands up, knocks his forehead against Kent's.

“It's not gonna change a thing, Parse.” They stay like that for a second. Then Jeff breaks away and gets back into bed. “Now go to sleep, the kids'll be in here practically any minute.”

 

This kids are upon them before the sun rises, the mass of them somehow managing to drag Jeff completely out of bed and down the stairs. They like Kent better so he gets to walk on his own. 

It is predictably awesome when the kids and grown-ups all realize they got Nerf guns, but Jeff's got nothing.

“Just wait a second,” Jeff says, holding up his hands, not yet accepting his foam-dart fate. “We can negotiate something here.”

“Open fire!” Estelle roars.

Kent fucking loves Christmas.

 

New Year's Eve starts pretty normal—they're coming off yesterday's loss to the Hurricanes, so the guys and assorted families are happy enough to pile into Tater's house. True to his word, Tater has stocked the kitchen with “enough Russian food to kill them all.” Kent parks himself by the snack table, since Tater doesn't have a dog or cat or anything cool, and focuses on eating.

Zimms and Bittle arrive a little later. Kent becomes aware of them because Zimms slides in behind him, sharing Kent's space the way they do now, and says, “You're not hanging with the kids? Who are you and what have you done with Parse?”

“Ha fucking ha.” Kent usually would have ditched by now, but all the kids are down in the basement with the three nannies Tater hired, watching Trolls. Kent has not yet recovered from Scrappy Jr.'s Trolls phase. “Are you guys gonna try the mystery punch? Tater says you have to be Russian to drink it. I guess Guy's an honorary Russian now.”

Bittle's mouth quirks into a little smile. “Why don't you go grab me a cup,” he says. Kent's there and back before he realizes Bittle was probably talking to Jack. Whatever. He slugs his own cup of the mystery punch.

“Don't go too hard,” Jack warns Kent. “Got a surprise later.”

“Is it part of the fireworks?” Kent asks, interested. Tater's got a stockpile in the garage. Kent's like eighty percent sure they're all gonna get arrested when they light them off.

“Wouldn't be a surprise if you found out now,” Bittle says. “Just don't get falling down drunk. We don't need a repeat of your twenty-first birthday.”

“No fair, you didn't even know me then,” Kent protests. He also doesn't remember most of that night, but he still has the feather boa. Well, one of the feather boas.

“I think we're safe, Bits, I don't think Tater bought any wine coolers,” Zimms says.

“Laugh it up, buttwipe,” Kent says. “Like you never puked in public. I remember a certain county fair--”

“Shut up, Parse,” Zimms warns him, turning bright red.

“--and a certain hotdog eating contest,” Kent says, dodging when Jack moves to presumably throttle him. “I believe the words 'how hard can it be' were thrown around--”

Bittle is doubled over, he's laughing so hard. That totally makes the headlock that Zimms puts him in worth it.

Bittle and Zimms stick pretty close all night, which is something that Kent feels almost used to. It's kinda nice. Kent adapts to Jack's arm around his shoulders, Bittle at his side, while he shoots the shit with Guy's girlfriend, or talks to Marty about fishing.

“Hey,” Zimms says quietly, pretty close to Kent's ear. “C'mon.”

And like. Since when has Kent turned down an offer like that?

 

Zimms and Bittle take Kent to a rink.

It's in Tater's neighborhood, just a block or so away, tucked back into a park. It's clearly built by hand, maybe just some local grown-ups coming together for it. Kent looks at the cheap wooden boards, the scored surface, some kid's abandoned mitten lying next to it, black on the snow--

“Holy shit,” Kent says. It's perfect. It's—the perfect fucking hockey rink.

Kent learned to skate on a rink like this. His dad used to build one in the backyard every winter, an afternoon spent swearing under his breath while Kent and his mom baked cookies, watched him through the kitchen window. The rink was for Kent's mom, originally. She's the one who taught him how to skate, maybe his first memory, a flash of her golden hair and puffy earmuffs, his hand in hers, glove to glove. He was little, safe--flying. He barely remembers her, some days, but this--

“Good surprise?” Bittle asks. Kent surfaces from the memory and finds Bittle watching him. He looks—nervous? How could he be nervous about this?

“The best,” Kent says. He clears his throat. “I don't—I didn't bring skates, but--”

“Got 'em,” Jack says. Of course he does. He produces three pairs from a backpack—Bittle's are white figure skates. Kent doesn't really know how Jack got a pair of Kent's skates, probably stole them from his locker or something, but it's fine. It's great.

They plop down into the snow to lace up, and then it's easy—Bittle's sweeping around gracefully, and Kent and Jack are racing, loops around the pitted surface in the dark, the only light the moon and some distant streetlamps. Coach would have their fucking heads if he knew, they could fall or something, but it's--

 

Right before Kent left for Connecticut, he went to therapy with Cheryl.

“What is it you want out of these sessions?” she asks.

Kent opened the first session with the whole part where he wants to make sure he's like, functional and supportive for Scraps' kids. That was basically the first thing he said to her, almost a month ago. So he shrugs.

“I don't know. I guess--” He swallows. It's embarrassing. “I guess I want to stop being a coward.”

“Why do you think you're a coward?” Cheryl asks. She likes to ask why he thinks things. It's hard, because Kent hasn't done a lot of time thinking about  _ why _ he feels things. He just—does stuff. Sometimes it blows up in his face, and then he tries not to do it again, until the next time something goes bad. A lot of times it's the same shit he did last time.

But now he's supposed to figure it out.

“I dunno.” Kent shrugs again. He thinks about Zimms, suddenly. Not now, but a long fucking time ago, at that party—Kent offering to get him on the Aces, Zimms just standing there, not wanting it. Wanting something else and then saying it. Kent's starting to get why, now, after a couple months out of Vegas. “I could be a better role model or whatever. Come out.”

“So coming out is a goal for you?” Cheryl asks. Kent shudders.

“Not yet. But maybe someday?” He wants a no-trade clause first. Maybe just to wait until he retires. It definitely isn't a good plan right now, with the rumors about him and Zimms, and now them on the same team. That's a guaranteed trade to somewhere totally lame, like the Schooners. “I guess I just, like. See how happy people are. With their wives or boyfriends and stuff. And I think maybe I want that. To be happier than I am now.”

Oh, man. Is that more or less embarrassing? And is it kind of fucked up, to still be grabbing for more when Kent's got everything he ever fucking wanted?

“That's normal,” Cheryl says. “That's a very normal desire, to want to be happy.”

So. Kent's normal, he guesses.

“What do you think would make you happy?” Cheryl asks.

Kent opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about a puck in a goal, the weight of Milo the first time Kent picked him up, the way Jack leans into Bittle, Bittle telling Kent to keep bringing flowers.

“How about you think on it,” Cheryl suggests.

Yeah, Kent can do that.

 

Jack and Kent wind down to a stop, in silent agreement. They stand there for a second, just watching Bittle spin.

“This is the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me,” Kent says, brave for a minute, even if he can't be the rest of the time. Kent feels capable of being still, quiet, for once in his fucking life. He didn't realize it was something he wanted to feel until now.

Bittle finishes his spin, poses, hands up. He beams over at Jack and Kent.

They're on the ice, alone, just the three of them. It's almost midnight.

“Kenny,” Jack says.

“Jack.” The swish of blades over ice—and Bittle's with them. Kent's relieved. “Bittle. I'm—confused.”

“That's okay,” Jack says. He smiles down at Kent, reaches out. Then Kent's hand is clasped in Jack's, and his heart is beating faster than it ever has before.

“How about,” Bittle murmurs, “you just tell us what feels good, and ask for what you want?”

What Kent  _ wants— _ he goes thickheaded, stupid, just trying to wrap his mind around it. He nods rapidly, but Bittle smirks at him.

“Gonna need you to say it, Parson,” Bittle says. Dick. Kent clears his throat, licks his lips. Bittle's eyes track the motion of his tongue, and that's gratifying.

“I want you to kiss me,” Kent says. It's out, then, in the cold, clear air.

Zimms cups Kent's cheek, tips Kent's face towards him. His eyes are so blue. His face is older. His hand is gentle, at odds with the burning feeling in Kent's entire body. “Me, or him?”

“Yes,” Kent blurts. Jack chuckles.

“Okay,” Jack says, and leans in.

Their first kiss was on the ice, Kent remembers, distantly. Everything important seems to happen here.

When they break apart, Bittle is watching, a hungry look on his face. Kent isn't sure exactly what the move is, what to do. Luckily, Bittle seems to realize that. He reaches for Kent, and Kent lets himself be pulled across the ice, Bittle's hand threading through his hair.

Kent has kissed people other than Jack. But not because he  _ wanted _ to, not just because he wanted to. Not because he thought it would make him happy to kiss them.

This, with Bittle, might make up for that. His lips are chapped, a little, from the cold. His face is smaller than Jack's, and he moves differently. Kent adapts, learns to move with him.

“Wow,” Kent says one they come up for air. Bittle laughs, not mean, just—happy, pretty. Kent made him laugh. It's kind of blowing his mind.

“Knew you were good at more than hockey,” Bittle says, and Kent--

Doesn't stop feeling happy, exactly, but--

“You know it, baby,” Kent leers theatrically, and Bittle laughs again, leans his head against Kent's chest. Kent lets himself bring up an arm, tuck Bittle in close. He glances at Zimms, to see if that's too much—is he overstepping? But Jack is smiling comfortably at them. And Kent guesses that makes sense.

Kent's not a threat. He's just—safe, and maybe hot, or something. Their friend.

Above them, the sky lights up. Tater's fireworks, visible from blocks away. Someone's definitely getting arrested for that. It must be midnight.

“Happy New Year,” Kent says. Bittle and Zimms say it back, exchange a brief kiss over Kent's shoulder.

This is enough, Kent thinks, Zimms a warm weight behind him, Bittle pressed against him, as the night turns golden. This is closer to happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is impossible to do competitive hockey and swimming at the same time, but I couldn't think of a good spring sport because tennis courts aren't sexy.


	5. i don't care, i like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be brave, Kent thinks. Brave can lead to happy. It can at least lead to not this, this stuff that he doesn't understand, that twists him up and leaves him reeling.

Kent fucks up his knee against the Ducks and is told, firmly and kindly, and then just firmly, that he can't go with the team on rest of the roadie, no really, he can't, sit down and shut up Parson. He is, in fact, supposed to get his ass on a plane back to Providence and sit out the next two games, maybe three. And then they'll see.

“Oh boy,” Zimms chuckles when he finds Kent pissed off and packing in their stupid hotel room. “Did you take your painkillers?”

“I will when I'm past security.” The pills always make Kent groggy, which probably won't mix well with the weird anxiety he gets whenever he has to fly on a commercial airline. He crams his phone charger into his carry-on. The team will bring his gear back on the team plane, which makes him twitchy, but whatever.

Zimms grabs him by the wrist and pulls him in, warm and close. Kent ignores the throbbing in his knee, which was supposed to be better after two surgeries last summer, goddamn it, and relaxes against Jack's chest for a second.

“Bits'll pick you up, I already texted him your arrival time,” Zimms murmurs into Kent's hair, and plants a kiss just above his ear. Kent doesn't shiver and melt because he's not sixteen, and after two months or so of being Jack and Bittle's mutual piece on the side he's starting to get used to having Jack kiss him again. Well, he'll get used to it soon. Whatever. It's nice, okay?

“I can just take a cab, dude.” It's stupid to have Bittle drive all the way to the airport just to drop Kent at his apartment, especially since it's probably gonna be balls o'clock by the time he gets back to Rhode Island.

“He'll pick you up,” Jack repeats. And like, sure, fine. It's not like Kent's in charge of this rodeo.

 

It's one in the morning by the time Kent lands in Providence. As promised, Eric Bittle is waiting in arrivals, bleary-eyed and wearing workout leggings. Kent has been on a plane for five hours, his knee is killing him, and he wants to sleep forever. However, Bittle is wearing leggings, and that just might wake Kent up a bit. They're pretty clingy.

“Hey.” Kent still isn't sure why all this is happening. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“How's your knee?” Bittle asks. He starts walking, and Kent knows to follow. Bittle's cool about it, slows down so Kent doesn't have to run-hobble after him.

“I'm on the good pills, so, you know.” Kent shrugs. Bittle kind of hums and Kent shuts up until they're in the car. “I could have taken a cab, you didn't have to let Zimms make you come out this late.”

Bittle shoots Kent one of those looks, the ones he reserves just for Kent. Kent calls them the Bless Your Heart glares. It's this half-smile imbued with Bittle's deep ambivalence for all things Parson, the kind of measured politeness that they've been sticking to since, well, Bittle's been sticking it to Kent. There've been a lot of first-date style questions, way less amiable chirping.

“My mama would fly here to give me a piece of her mind if I ever let a gentleman take care of himself when he's injured.” And then Bittle turns up the music a little, so Kent can lean back and be quiet on the drive.

He lets himself close his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knows Bittle is shaking his shoulder and saying, “Parse. Wake up for a sec, we're here.”

Kent pries his eyes open and squints in confusion. “We're at your house.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Bittle says, laughing a little. “Lord, you are on the good pills. C'mon, let's get you to bed.”

Kent lets Bittle pull him out of the car and shoo him inside. Why are they at Jack and Bittle's house? “Gotta—Purrs.”

“It's not like the catsitter knows you're home already, he'll get fed.” Bittle somehow guides Kent into the master bedroom and pushes Kent down onto the bed. It's very soft. Is it usually this soft? “Shoes, mister.”

“I'm not--” Kent waves a hand down at himself, “up for it. Tired.”

“I'll try to restrain myself,” Bittle says dryly. He's taking Kent's shoes off for him. Why is he taking Kent's shoes off? “Because you're not sleeping in them.”

Oh, Kent said that aloud. That's—he frowns, fumbles at his jeans. His head feels like it's full of cotton balls. Fuck these painkillers. Does Bittle want him to--? If he lays down he could probably manage like, a blowjob or something, as long as Bittle's kind of careful with Kent's gag reflex.

“Well, with an offer like _that_. Just take your jeans off, Parson.” Then Bittle's easing Kent's legs into a pair of soft pants and peeling him out of his shirt. “Lay down. Be quiet.”

Kent listens, because that's kind of how it works with him and Bittle. “Make it up to you tomorrow,” he promises. He lets his eyes fall closed.

A noise, somewhere above him, like a sigh. “Just go to sleep.”

Kent obeys.

 

Kent wakes up because his knee feels like it's being stabbed with many tiny knives. At least that's better than many big knives. He fumbles blindly to his left and jolts awake when his arm hits more bed instead of his nightstand. He sits up and tries to make sense of his surroundings. It takes a second, but he remembers eventually. Zimms' and Bittle's house. Bittle put him to bed. He looks around and sees a glass of water and an orange pill bottle on the nightstand. He's on Jack's side of the bed. Bittle is nowhere to be found.

First thing's first. Kent swallows a painkiller and lets himself flop back down until it kicks in. Fifteen minutes later he manages to haul himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He showers off the plane smell and uses Jack's spicy bodywash, sniffs the bottle a little while he's at it.

For a lack of something better he pulls on a pair of Jack's workout shorts and a Falcs shirt that Kent's pretty sure is actually his, since it fits so well. When did he leave a shirt here?

Then he goes in search of Bittle.

Bittle is in the kitchen, naturally, chatting on the phone and rolling out pie crust. “--I think he's okay, he's still asleep. I'll have him text you when he wakes up.”

“Hey,” Kent says, announcing himself. “I'm up.”

“Speak of the devil,” Bittle says, turning around and waving the rolling pin in greeting. “Yes, that's him. I don't know, sweetheart, I haven't gotten a chance to ask. Did you take your painkillers?”

“Yeah, thanks for the water and stuff.” It was kind of nice. Nobody's put out medicine or anything for Kent since he was a kid and had the flu. “That Zimms?”

“Who else?” Bittle asks, which, point. “Yes, honey, we're making fun of you. Because you make it so easy. Because you're a worrywart. I've got this.” He pauses, laughs, and adds, “Yes, I promise. Have a good practice. Love you too.”

Bittle puts down the rolling pin and dusts flour off his hands. “Do you want an omelet? I know you're supposed to eat with those pills.”

“Don't stop what you're doing, I can grab Dunkin's on the way home.” Kent isn't sure exactly what the etiquette is here, so he shoves his hands into his pockets. Does he thank Bittle again? Is that too much?

Bittle pulls a face. “Ha ha. Sit down, I'll put ham in it.”

Kent sits. Bittle makes him an omelet. There is ham in it, as promised.

“Don't you have to work today?” Kent is pretty sure Bittle films on Fridays.

Bittle gives him another one of the Bless Your Heart looks. “I took the day off.”

Because Kent is here? That's--

Oh. Well, Kent guesses they've never had a lot of time to themselves, without Jack, since they started this whole thing up. So if Bittle's been wanting to do some kind of special sex thing this would be a good time. He pulls out a smirk and stretches his arms up over his head, flexes a little. Bittle's eyes track the motion. Yeah, Kent's still got it.

“Guess I'd better make it worth your while, then,” Kent says. Bittle goes a little pink, which, score.

But then Bittle just says, “Easy, there. Do you want some coffee?”

“Uh. Sure?”

Kent isn't sure exactly what to do here. Bittle sits and scrolls through emails at the table. Kent's got a huge cup of coffee in front of him—full of milk and sugar, just like he likes it.

When did Bittle figure out how Kent likes his coffee? Presumably on one of the mornings that Kent's slept over, since it's not like he's going to sneak out after sex. Kent's always loved waking up in the same bed as someone. That's half the reason he's dated, honestly, the feeling of falling asleep together and then waking up tangled together.

It's a thousand times better now, with Zimms and Bittle, then it ever has been before. Kent kind of assumed that his favorite part would be, you know, the sex. Especially now that he's actually _into_ the sex. Kent has basically spent his twenties mentally willing his erection to hold up while he fucked his girlfriends. He spent a lot of time going down on them. He didn't mind that so much, it took a lot of the pressure off. But it was all kind of to get to the other parts—bringing someone to brunch with Scraps and Maggie, having a reason to call home on roadies, and yeah. Sleeping next to someone.

Kent still kind of likes that part the most. Waking up together. So it's not like there's been a shortage of mornings in this kitchen, since New Year's. But still.

Kent finishes his coffee and watches Bittle answer emails, or YouTube comments, or whatever the fuck. “Hey, dude. Thanks for the breakfast. I'd best be hitting that dusty trail, right?”

Bittle looks up and fixes Kent with a stare. “What?”

“Uh. Home? I should go home.” Kent kind of just wants to curl up with his cat and his Netflix queue. “I'm gonna get an Uber or something. Do you remember what I did with my bag last night?”

“You want to go home,” Bittle repeats.

“Yes,” Kent says slowly, aware as he does that he's making some kind of mistake. Bittle frowns at him. “Gotta get home to my cat.”

Bittle's frown just deepens. “I can take you home if you want, but I don't want to leave you alone when you're hurt. You're supposed to stay off that knee.”

“Oh. I guess you could—come over?” Kent offers. He wants to take it back as soon as he says it. Bittle doesn't want to come over. He and Zimms have never been anywhere near Kent's apartment, and clearly there's a reason for that.

“All right,” Bittle agrees, shocking the hell out of Kent. “Gimme a minute, I'll get your bag.”

Oh shit. Bittle is going to see how many pucks Kent has framed, and the amount of cat trees he has bought for Purrs, and then Bittle is never going to want to have sex with Kent again.

“Cool,” Kent's mouth says, completely without his permission. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is going to be a disaster.

 

Purrs comes trotting up to the door when Kent opens it. The little bell on his collar is jingling and he's chirping, excited to see Kent after a couple days away. Just like always, Kent is so fucking happy to see him.

“Hey, little man.” Kent bends down the best he can to scoop up his dude. Purrs is overjoyed to be slung around Kent's shoulders like a living scarf, nestles in and lives up to his name by purring like crazy. “Yeah, I missed you too. Hey, yeah. How've you been?”

“So this is the famous Kent Purrson,” Bittle says. Kent abruptly remembers that there is a witness to his cat-greeting ritual who is not Jeff or the Scraps family, and turns red.

“Uh, yeah. Welcome. Mi casa, and all that jazz.” Kent waves at the apartment. “Bathroom's down the hall, that's, um. The TV. And that's the kitchen. It's not complicated, I guess.”

Bittle is ignoring Kent's feeble attempt at a tour in favor of examining the framed pictures on the walls. “Who's this?”

“That's Maggie and Milo, Scraps' family,” Kent says. He put up a bunch of pictures of actual people recently, because Cheryl told him he should have things around that make him happy other than his cat.

It was kind of fun to look through all the photos and pick good ones. Bittle's looking at one of Kent's favorites: Maggie and Milo just finished burying Kent in the sand at the beach last summer. Scrappy took the picture.

“And this?” Bittle asks, moving along. “Is this your dad?”

“Ha, no. That's Gerard, Jack told you about him. He's my bud from Rimouski.” That picture is from when they finally fixed up the whole front of Gerard's house, right before Kent's last season in the Q. Gerard is beaming, an arm slung around Kent's shoulders. Kent is skinny and young, still lacking that final inch of height. He's got one from this Thanksgiving, surrounded by Angelica's family, right next to that one. He wonders if Bittle will recognize Foxtrot in there. “Do you need anything to drink? Or eat?”

“I think I'm supposed to be takin' care of you,” Bittle says, finally turning away from the pictures. “Do you want to set up on the couch, or in your room?”

“Um.” Kent knows he's going to want to nap soon, based on his normal reactions to painkillers. “My room, I guess.”

It's not exactly surprising when Bittle follows Kent into the master suite. Kent grabs all the remotes for the TV, climbs gingerly on top of the covers. Purrs lets him turn on Netflix before claiming Kent's torso as a bed. Bittle settles in on the other side of the bed and buries himself in his phone.

“Do you want to watch something?” Kent offers.

“Whatever's fine,” Bittle says, the liar, like he won't freak out if Kent tries to put on something Bittle hasn't seen before. Kent just hits play next on Parks and Rec, since that'll make it impossible to object.

They watch an episode and a half before Kent starts to succumb to the drag of the pills. He settles down into his pillows a little deeper, muffles a yawn.

“You can go if you want, dude, this has gotta be pretty boring.” Not even Bittle can be this devoted to the Falcs' season or whatever it is that's got him playing nursemaid.

“I'm fine right here, Parse,” Bittle says. And it's not like Bittle does stuff just because Kent wants him to, so that's probably the truth.

Okay. Kent relaxes.

“Hey,” Kent says, a minute later, eyes falling shut. Purrs is curled up on his chest, warm and rumbling softly. Kent swears he can feel Bittle on the bed next to him, just as warm but not rumbling. It's nice. This is pretty close to perfect.

“What's up?” Bittle asks.

“Do you like being here?” Kent asks. Do you like me? The pills are tugging him down, closer to sleep.

Silence. Then, Bittle's hand, fingers carding softly through Kent's hair. He hums, leans into it just a little, tilts his face towards Bittle.

“God, aren't you pretty,” Bittle murmurs. His fingers are moving slowly, stroking Kent's hair. Kent can feel himself blushing, distantly. “You're so gorgeous, honey. How could I not like being here?”

And that's—Kent frowns, mentally scans his repertoire of feelings. He's feeling a little stung, vulnerable, but he's not sure why. File that one away for confused. “You don't have to say that.”

“Do you not like it?” Bittle asks.

And that's—definitely not it. Kent likes it. He likes it too much. He's gotta be able to keep his head, here.

“Don't have to talk to me like you talk to Jack,” Kent says. He wants to sleep. His knee is throbbing distantly, the painkillers dulling it out. “Know it's not the same.”

More silence. But Bittle doesn't stop touching him, and Kent is happy about that, at least.

“Go to sleep, Parse. We'll talk when you wake up.”

 

When Kent wakes up, Bittle's still there, messing with his phone. It's jarring for a second. Purrs is curled up in Bittle's lap, sleeping. Kent's knee is hurting distantly, not time for another pill yet. He's feeling pretty groggy, still tired.

“Hey,” Kent says. Bittle looks up from his phone and smiles a little.

“Hey yourself,” Bittle says. “Did you pick this cat because he's Aces colors?”

Kent looks at Purrs, thinks about the little tuxedo-print ball of noise and fluff that climbed all over him at the animal shelter, when he went back to film a fluff piece for Aces media about how they were all named after the team. The girl in charge of the kittens didn't spill the beans that Kent was the one to bring the kittens in, and he doesn't remember if he ever thanked her for that. And the littlest cat, probably the loudest one—that one was so small he could fit in Kent's cupped hands.

“We named him Kent Purrson,” the girl told him, but by that point Kent was already in, it was too late. He had to have the cat.

“Nah,” Kent says to Bittle. “He was just mine, you know?”

Bittle just looks at him, and Kent starts to get nervous. He props himself back up on the pillows, so at least he's sitting up.

“I think we need to talk,” Bittle says, in a very measured and even voice that makes Kent's spine stiffen. He puts his phone down on the nightstand. Purrs wakes up at the movement and makes a grumpy noise before settling back down on Bittle's lap.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Hey, I'm sorry if I said something weird.” Kent remembers falling asleep with Bittle touching him, petting his hair. Shit, he didn't actually ask Bittle if he _liked_ Kent, right? That part was just something he thought? “I always get a little chatty when I'm on the good pills.”

“You said something before you fell asleep,” Bittle continues. “That I don't have to talk to you like I talk to Jack. Is it because I said you're pretty? Do you not like that?”

Christ, isn't Bittle supposed to hate confrontation? Kent remembers Jack saying that Bittle doesn't like to talk about shit. Can Kent opt into that version of the guy?

“You don't usually talk to me like that, is all.” Kent looks up at the ceiling instead of Bittle's perfect earnest face. “You know. The pet names and stuff. You called me honey. That's the way you talk to Jack.”

“Do you want me to talk to you like I talk to Jack?” Bittle asks, very gently, and Kent feels his cheeks turning bright red. He hears himself laugh. It doesn't sound good, jagged, bitter. He reminds himself to breathe.

God, what is Bittle trying to do, rub Kent's face in it? Fuck. He can't do this—be here, in his apartment, waking up next to Bittle with Jack across the country, like it's not just convenient, like Kent's—

Like it means something to Bittle. Kent knows better, okay, and he can't deal with Bittle letting him down gently.

“Dude, if I needed someone to talk to me like you talk to Jack, I guess I'd go find my own boyfriend.” Like it's super simple, like Kent has managed to do that since he was seventeen, but his pathetic love life isn't what's up for debate here.

“Your own--?” Bittle's jaw drops a little. “Parse--”

“Listen, thanks for the ride and for making sure I didn't pass out and die.” Kent scrubs a hand through his hair. “I'm probably just gonna order delivery and sleep a lot, and then later I need to go see a trainer. Figures someone'd try to take me out before we clinch a spot for playoffs, am I right?”

Bittle chuckles a little, not meeting Kent's eye. He's nudging Purrs off his lap, deposits him gently on the bed next to Kent. “You figure they can't get there without you, huh?”

“Well I don't like to brag, but I'm Kent fucking Parson.” Kent laughs loud enough to startle Purrs, who glares at him before curling back up and ignoring the humans.

“You don't like to brag,” Bittle echoes. And yep, there it is, the eye roll. “Sure. You're Kent Parson. How could I forget. Don't get up, you've gotta rest your knee. I can let myself out.”

Kent waits until he hears the front door close, and then he collapses back onto his pillows.

“That was a close one,” Kent tells his cat, who does not respond because he's a cat. Kent knows that secretly Purrs is glad that Kent didn't totally torpedo this thing he's doing with Bittle and Jack.

Still, Kent's pretty sure he almost blew it. He's got to get his shit together.

 

Kent did not permanently fuck up his knee, which is good because he's pretty sure this could be a Cup season. He sits out the rest of the roadie, just does a lot of stretching and switches between the Magic Bag and ice once the trainer gives him the all-clear.

“We want you in shape for playoffs, Parson,” George says when Kent wanders his way over to her office to double check he's really not allowed to join the team to beat the hell out of the Schooners. He hates the fucking Schooners. “Which means not letting you fuck your knee up more.”

And yeah, Kent knows that's the right move. That doesn't mean he's not going out of his skull, especially since when he texts Bittle to see if he wants to hang out, it turns out that Bittle is spending a couple days in Boston to do some kind of collaboration with his artist friend from Samwell.

Angelica at least lets Kent do a couple of bouquets, so he kills a couple hours here and there at the store. Mostly he's bored.

It's a huge relief when the Falcs get back to town. Kent's knee is better, and he even got to stop taking the loopy pills after just a day. Also, he missed the ice.

“Halle-fucking-lujah, let's get this motherfucker the Rocket Richard,” Kent crows during practice when Zimms tips in a beautiful goal off of Kent's assist. “Fucking beaut!”

“You just want the Art Ross,” Guy bellows from across the rink.

“Excuse you, fucker, that's _another_ Art Ross,” Kent yells back.

Zimms snags Kent by the elbow when he's on his way out for the day. “Hey. What's going on with you and Bits?”

“Uh.” Kent wasn't aware there was anything going on with him and Bittle. Unless-- “Oh, yeah. We got our wires crossed, I guess he felt like he was supposed to take care of me or something. I let him off the hook.”

Zimms sighs. “He wasn't on the hook, Parse, he wanted to help. And now he thinks he fucked up somehow.”

Ah, shit. Kent must've been weirder than he thought. First Bittle thought he had to be all sweet and boyfriendly, and then Kent went too hard the other way to make sure he wasn't making an idiot out of himself--

“So, what? How do I bribe my way out of this?” Kent asks. Jack glowers at him until Kent puts on a contrite expression.

“How about you just come over,” Zimms says. “The two of you can talk it out, eh?”

“Yeah, sure, but. Bribes? Gimme a hint, Zimmermann.”

“How about you try expressing yourself without smirking for once, pal,” Zimms says. He gently hip checks Kent, and Kent rolls his eyes.

“No goddamn promises.” But yeah. Talk it out at Jack and Bittle's house. Kent can't fucking wait. “You wanna drive, dude? I want to ice my knee.”

Jack drives. He puts on his horrible dad music, but Kent gets to slap an icepack on his knee for the drive so it's worth it. When they park in the driveway, though, Jack sighs and leans forward, rests his head against the steering wheel.

Kent reaches over. He may not be exactly sure of his place, but he remembers what to do. He takes Jack's wrist and taps out a slow rhythm, something for Jack to shape his breathing around. He used to tap on stuff like that all the time: the bench, a desk in class, very occasionally Jack's bare chest while they were in bed together.

“Hey, man. What's got you so worked up?” Kent asks, when he's sure that talking won't tip Jack into a full anxiety attack.

Jack laughs breathlessly. He doesn't raise up his head, but Kent watches his breathing and it's fine. No panic. Just--

“I never thought I could have you back,” Zimms admits. “I thought—okay, that's the price, to get better. It was all the things I'd ever done, and I had to give them up and start again, and you were part of that. We didn't fit anymore. And then you just kept showing up, not _getting_ it--”

“And you wanted me gone,” Kent finishes.

“Don't get me wrong, it was also because you were an asshole a lot of the time,” Jack adds.

“Fucking takes one to know one.” Kent clears his throat. Well, he wanted to be braver. He opens his mouth, and says, “I mean. So you missed me?”

“Holy shit, Kenny,” Zimms says, finally sitting up. “How do you not know this? I missed you so fucking much. You were my best friend.”

Well, if he puts it like that, Kent gets it. That's what it was like out in Vegas. But--

“It's not like you were pining, you've got a new best friend.” Kent's met Shitty Knight. Kent's spent more time than he's proud of thinking about how jealous he is of Shitty Knight.

“So do you,” Jack points out. “God, the first time I saw a video of you and that Jeff guy I wanted to put a puck through my computer. I was so fucking jealous. I didn't watch your games for two years after that.”

“I didn't know,” Kent says. Holy shit. He remembers, suddenly, Jack outside that bar, way back before all this got started. You're not alone, Jack said. Kent didn't exactly take him at his word, but _what if—_

“I don't want this to get fucked up,” Jack says. “I don't want to walk in there and it's all fucked up. I don't want to go back to watching you across the ice and not being able to kiss you. I have no idea what you said to Bits that's got him freaking out, but I suggest groveling.”

“That I can do.” Kent follows Jack into the house, and thinks about Bittle bringing him here when he was hurt, putting him to bed and making him breakfast. The vase in the hallway has a bunch of tulips in it, Kent's last offering.

“Bits? Bud?” Jack calls.

“In here, sweetpea,” Bittle calls back. The house smells like sugar. Kent follows Zimms into the kitchen. Bittle's chopping fruit, back turned. He turns when he hears them, already smiling.

The smile dims a little when he sees Kent. Shit. Grovelling, right.

“Hey, Bittle,” Kent says. He smiles brightly, winces when that doesn't do anything but make Bittle turn away again. Shit, Bittle doesn't think he's charming. Apologies tend to be easier when people do. Kent assumes a grave expression instead. “I came to apologize?”

“What for?” Bittle's still turned away. His hands are moving, again, slicing rhubarb into chunks. “You didn't do anything.”

“I, uh. I hurt your feelings,” Kent says. He's maybe not sure _how_ , except maybe he shouldn't have asked Bittle to leave the other day. He thinks about the apology chart that Scraps sent him, the one they're gonna use for Milo from now on. Here's what I did, I'm sorry, here's how I won't do it again. There are also birds on the chart, which Kent doesn't get, but whatever.

“I didn't mean to, but that doesn't mean I didn't do it. So I'll be more careful?”

Jack nods encouragingly, so clearly Kent just crushed it. But Bittle drops the knife and turns around—oh, holy shit, no. Bittle's eyes are bright, his chin is wobbling. He looks like he's about to cry. Jack is going to kill Kent. Kent is so dead, he has never been more dead than in this moment, about to make Eric Bittle cry.

“Oh, hey, no,” Kent says, moving on autopilot. He gathers Bittle into his arms, strokes the back of his head. Bittle puts his face into Kent's shoulder, takes a long shuddering breath. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, don't do that. Don't cry.”

“We can't do this anymore,” Bittle says in a choked, small voice. Kent _hates_ it. Bittle isn't supposed to sound like that, he's supposed to be—chirping Kent, and telling him what to do, and smiling at Jack. “I can't—not if you don't feel the same way. When you said you would go out and _get a boyfriend—_ ”

“Wait, what?” Jack says, but Kent doesn't have time to pay attention to that.

“—I guess it was silly to think we were all on the same page,” Bittle continues. “But you don't want me to call you honey, you don't want us to come to your place—you'll tell a stranger your life story and I don't know a thing about you that you can't find out from Twitter.”

And Kent—was doing all that, yeah. He had to keep something for himself, for when Zimms and Bittle got tired of him. He never thought for a second that it was something they wanted.

“I didn't—I mean, I didn't know you wanted me to tell you stuff,” Kent says. “Those people usually start off liking me, it's different.”

“You think we don't even _like_ you?” Bittle asks, drawing away enough for Kent to see that at least he hasn't started crying.

Kent's entire body starts itching. He could just run for it. He could start walking. He forgot to take his shoes off when he came in the house, it would be easy.

“I don't—know? I mean, it's hard to tell!” Kent yelps when Bittle seems like he's about to veer over to pissed instead of wounded. “We went right from you hating me, to maybe wanting to have sex with me. I didn't know I missed a step or whatever. I thought it was just me.”

“You thought what was just you?” Zimms asks. Kent looks over his shoulder. Jack looks steady, not stricken like Bittle, the way Kent feels. Figures, since Jack already did the feelings part out in the car.

Be brave, Kent thinks. Brave can lead to happy. It can at least lead to not this, this stuff that he doesn't understand, that twists him up and leaves him reeling.

“I thought it was just me falling in love with you two,” Kent says. He has to catch his breath, after that. He hasn't told someone he loved them—not like this, at least, not meaning it this way—since he was eighteen, the night of the Draft, right before he got kicked out of Jack's hospital room by Bad Bob.

“What the hell, Parse.” Jack just looks at Kent, incredulous. He takes the two steps to be next to Kent and Bittle, hovers there. “Are you serious? You think we're what, running around with all our teammates? You think Bits and I invite Tater into our bed?”

“Nah, you like blonds,” Kent says. He feels himself starting to smile—there's something coming in his brain, a realization about to burst like when he's on the ice and sees a path through the D, a way to score. It's almost there. “What's your excuse, Bittle?”

And there it is, Bittle smiling again, up at Kent. It's perfect.

“I guess I've got a thing for hockey players,” Bittle says. “Just to be clear. That means I've got a thing for _you_.”

“Hey, I guess you do,” Kent says, and that's it—boom, in the goal. He can't stop smiling. “Bad taste, dude.”

“Nah,” Jack says, and then he's even closer, leaning down to kiss the top of Bittle's head, loops an arm around Kent's shoulders. They're just standing there in the kitchen like dumbasses, and Kent is so fucking happy. “Decent taste, at least.”

“I love you,” Kent manages. Easy now that it's out there, he guesses. He raises his eyebrow at Jack and Bittle. “You in or out, Zimmermann? Bittle?”

“In,” Jack says.

“Very in,” Bittle agrees, and kisses Kent.

Kent isn't sure it's going to work forever—he's clearly got some stuff to work on, if this happened in the first place, and it's not like Zimms and Bittle are perfect. There's still the fact that Kent's closeted, and the three of them probably can't keep this shit under wraps forever, and there's Cheryl telling him he's got to focus on knowing himself before he tries to know himself through the eyes of others or something--

But who the fuck cares?

Right now, it's kind of the best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you everyone for your support, I definitely would not have finished this without all the encouragement from your lovely comments. All gratitude to the Parse Posi Posse, especially the superb ravenreyamidala and rarefiednight for beta reading!


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